


Hail the Swan, Forevermore

by Zloth



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Cuckolding, Cunnilingus, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Frottage, Humiliation, Mind Control, Netorase, Oral Sex, Psychosis, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2019-08-14 03:14:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16484936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zloth/pseuds/Zloth
Summary: Years later, the effects of Slytherin’s locket become apparent. The damage it had wrought was far greater than anyone anticipated, particularly to the psyche of an older Ronald Weasley.How else could he explain the fantasies he had? How else could he rationalise the lurid images of his wife and his best friend?How else could he justify the steps he would take to make it all a reality?





	1. Tyndareus' Conflict

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling and her associated publishers. I hold no ownership over Harry Potter and am merely using the established characters and world (with edits to both) for parody. Please read the tags before reading. It is your responsibility to exercise good judgement in perusing the web; this piece of fiction is not exempt. The tags will be amended as the work is updated.

It was normally a mad rush getting the kids ready in the morning.

Hugo, particularly, was an inordinately heavy sleeper – probably his own fault if he were honest with himself, both by example and by ‘genetics’ (as his wife explained to him). This morning, however, they had an excuse, apart from it being Friday: not a one of them had a good night’s sleep. Granted, it was only to be expected, given the excitement of returning to school for Rose, and arguably more importantly, starting school for Hugo.

His wife was certainly not unaffected, but thankfully it was not nearly so bad as a few years previous. Letting Rose go the first time had turned her into a jittering mess the full week beforehand. Still, the experience (and the continued exposure from the subsequent year’s seeing-off) served as good practice for Hugo’s first day, tempering that anxiety into a single-minded focus for the minutiae of the day.

Even sleep deprived, she was beautiful. She had barely aged a day since they married all those years ago, still glowing with maternal vigour somehow renewed with each child. Brunette locks had tamed somewhat in the years since youth, but even the slight disarray worked only to ground her beauty firmly in reality.

She was too good for him.

The sofa chair laid in the corner of their bedroom, smothered in clothes and books and stationary aplenty. She had taken to manually sorting the kids’ luggage manually after a particularly harrowing incident the morning of September 1st last year, where a careless wave of her wand resulted in clothes tearing themselves in an effort to organise themselves into their appropriate sections. It was only unfortunate happenstance that a few stragglers had gotten stuck underneath the weighty pile of books. A _reparo_ had fixed it adequately, but the noticeable difference in quality compared pre- and post- damage was reason enough to fear a repeat.

At least Hermione thought so. He felt justified in quickly making sure there weren’t stray pieces before taking a quick shortcut.

… No one had ever accused Ron Weasley of a strong work ethic.

She had yet to get properly dressed, preferring the comfort of her nightwear until she took her shower. It was a fortuitous preference; bent over, sorting through the years’ books for the children, she presented an enticing sight for his tired eyes. The white sleeping gown was incredibly form fitting, hugging her figure flatteringly with each movement. Never had he been gladder that his wife was a stickler for the rules, self-imposed or otherwise; he would happily repeat the chaos of 2018 for _this_ reward.

With a deep inhale, she stood straight and turned. Noticing her husband was awake, she smiled beautifully.

“Good morning,” she greeted warmly, moving forward and leaning over to give him a light kiss.

He groaned against her mouth, wanting to taste her further but feeling too fatigued to get up. She pulled back summarily, giving him a smile as she did, the lost opportunity soothed by her radiance.

“It’s almost time to get up,” she warned. “The kids need to get ready too. I don’t want a repeat of last year.”

Last year was admittedly hellish for all involved; it was a mad rush right from the get-go, each struggling to pull some energy from their depleted wells, Hermione carrying them along the best she could even in spite of torn clothing. He could admit that it wasn’t worth the extra thirty minutes of sleep, no matter how tem _pting it was…_

‘No,’ he told himself, shaking his head clear. ‘No, you’re going to be _responsible_ and wake the kids up.’

With a deep sigh, he sat up in bed, still covered by the warmth of the bedsheets but at least more alert than a moment previous. Hermione had since left during his arduous journey from horizontal to something approaching vertical, most likely to take a shower or to start on breakfast. He settled against the headboard, pillow firmly behind him, and rested his eyes, content with another minute to get himself ready for the day.

The house would be empty this year, bereft of any of the children. Hermione’s days had been incredibly busy as of late, even more than usual with some key legislation being pushed through, but events had been slowly winding down. Equality was nearer than ever before among the different factions, both wizard-kind and otherwise; procedures had been put in place to facilitate greater Muggleborn integration; the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was well-funded to both prevent and combat the advent of another Dark Lord…

She had done some amazing work and would doubtlessly be remembered throughout history as one of the greatest Ministers that Magical Britain had ever been fortunate enough to have. Together with Harry and his astounding political clout, they had transformed the world, standing side-by-side against overwhelming resistance and coming out as the victors, the two golden paragons of their generation.

It stung a little, to be left out – or left behind, as the case was. They had tried to include him for several years, each pleading for his support, and he did try. He went to meetings, to press conferences, to Wizengamot proceedings, but each attempt left him stumbling, a fool in the eyes of his peers. The duo encouraged him more, both having their own stories to tell where they had faltered at pivotal and embarrassing moments yet nonetheless persevered, but each of his attempts to re-enter the political scene in various capacities drew more out of him, humiliation and failure taking their toll. Eventually, he remained staunch with his refusal, unwilling to lampoon himself any further.

The duo’s disappointment was palpable, but after a few months they understood that he couldn’t be swayed. Instead, they redoubled their own efforts, becoming more politically powerful and increasingly savvy until, as he predicted, they no longer needed him. He still went to work, rising through the ranks of the Auror Corps to Captain and contributing to society and peace in his own way, but the avenue of politics was forevermore closed to him.

It suited him, really. He wasn’t made for the political scene, or the double-speak jargon language it was filled with; it was a nest of vultures, his wife and best friend aside. But, a consequence he could never have predicted was his reaction to his exclusion, self-imposed as it may have been—

“Ron! You need to get up,” he heard from downstairs, proof that Hermione was – or had been – cooking. “I’ve made breakfast! Get the kids up on your way down.”

Now _that_ was a language he could talk.

* * *

Breakfast was delicious. Rose and Hugo agreed wholeheartedly if their ravenous scarfing was any indication. Hermione shook her head in fond amusement, used to their antics, just thankful their ‘scarfing’ didn’t resemble their father’s during their Hogwarts days even if their appetites were eerily reminiscent.

“Okay, I’ll take a quick shower while you’re all eating. By the time I’m done I want someone else ready to take the next,” Hermione announced at the table, swiftly rising to a chorus of hummed and muffled agreements. Shaking her head amusedly, she pranced up the stairs with nary another word said.

Ron felt a pang, a loss of days gone by where he would join her inside the shower, both of them getting messier than when they had entered. Simpler times before they had children; when they could relax without having the gauntlet of upcoming duties hanging over them. Of course, the fantasy of shower-sex had become increasingly benign, each year his imagination growing more vivid, more _perverse_ , more _forbidden_ …

He shook himself, diving again into the meal cooked by _his_ wife. He focused on his meal, minutes passing with only the sound of scraping, chewing and swallowing, but his mind kept wandering, incessant and enticing, a siren’s call demanding his attention. Between bites, he resolved to use his kids as a diversion, feeling sick with himself all the while.

“So, Hugo, you excited for your first day?” he asked around a mouthful, the bacon starting to stiffen as it grew colder. His son shrugged noncommittedly, putting on an air of feigned indifference to his father’s considerable amusement.

“I can’t wait to see everyone,” Rose interjected with barely restrained excitement.

“What are you talking about? You’ve seen them throughout the holidays – I’ve been there!” Ron asked, confused.

His daughter rolled her eyes exasperatedly. “It’s not the same, Dad,” she explained with a huff. Ron shared a look with Hugo, clearly amused. Before Rose could tear into them, they heard the water shut off.

“Okay, who wants to go next?” Ron asked, Rose standing up immediately while Hugo remained seated, his fork scraping against his plate through an egg yolk. “Well, go on.”

She almost threw her plates in the sink, the muted crash under the soapy water unheeded, and ran up the stairs. “She’s in a hurry,” Hugo muttered under his breath, watching her go.

“Yes, well, she gets that from her mum,” he answered. “Can never stay still for too long.”

His son hummed his agreement, absently chewing as he thought. Ron took it as an opportunity to do the same, leaning back in his chair and resting his eyes. She was so similar to her mother, his daughter; so eager for school, albeit for somewhat different reasons, but with that same flair for life. His son took more after him, though quieter by an order of magnitude; passive, like rocks on a shore, uncaring of the waves splashing across him.

They both made him immeasurably proud.

The rest of the meal was spent in silence, both comfortable with the background buzz filling the air unimpeded until the call from above told them the shower was free. Hugo went next, unable to hide his budding excitement, with Ron more than content with being last.

* * *

Hermione kissed Hugo on the forehead, smoothing down the fringe as she went, reminiscent of his own mother doing the same for him. Rose, while older than Hugo, nonetheless happily submitted to the same treatment, a fond smile adorning her lips.

Ron gave his own hug for the both of them, the fatherly warmth emanating with practiced ease. “You’re gonna love it,” he muttered as he embraced Hugo, absolutely certain of his words.

“Yeah,” his son breathed, a slight shudder escaping with it.

“Don’t worry,” he reassured, himself as much as his son, “you’ll be brilliant. We love you no matter what.”

“Yeah,” Hugo repeated.

With a last squeeze, he let go, deliberately not paying attention to his son’s arms pulling back earlier than his own.

“Oh?” Ron heard behind him, the baritone as familiar to him as air. “Where’s my hug?”

Rose’s face brightened, immediately barrelling into the owner. “Uncle Harry!” she exclaimed. “Why haven’t you visited us as much these past holidays? Getting sick of us?” she teased.

“Of you, Rose? Never!” Harry rebuffed immediately. “You’re my favourite niece, after all.”

She gave a deliberate eyeroll. “I remember you saying much the same to Victoire last Christmas,” she pointed out.

“My favourite,” he repeated glibly, ignoring her riposte with good humour as he gave her a roguish smile and a final squeeze.

Hugo had gone to his side almost as quickly as Rose, waiting patiently for his turn. Harry turned expectantly with his arms open, Hugo willingly throwing himself forward, embraced warmly by his uncle in a manner similar to his father, yet somehow intrinsically different.

The Potter siblings approached Hermione, each giving her a hug ringing with familial affection. The bonds between them were tight, strengthened through the late nights that she and their father had toiled away discussing policy and the future of the world. He could see Hermione’s mouth moving, no doubt whispering reassurances and words of congratulations to each – a politician and a mother both, even to children not her own.

They detached slowly, almost unwillingly, and trudged over towards him. He tried to give his best smile, at least accomplishing something as they smiled weakly back at him, giving him a brief hug each. He didn’t begrudge them their hesitance; their bonds to him, while certainly there, were not tempered by daily exposure like they had been with Hermione.

Yet it couldn’t entirely temper the pang of humiliation, knowing he had failed in some respect to gain their affection, especially seeing Harry’s own relationship with Rose and Hugo. So eager, so willing to jump into his arms and be embraced, _a mirror of their mother, sitting in Harry’s lap, kissing him, grinding down on—_

He shook himself, his smile becoming more brittle as he pulled back, not to slight the Potter siblings but to distance them from his shame, stiffening unnoticeably beneath his robes. Their smiles became ever so slightly uncomfortable, noticing the small shuffle backwards but not accurately discerning the intent. It was by mutual unspoken agreement that they would wait silently for the rest of the family to finish, awkward yet entirely unwilling to broach the distance.

He wondered how he had become such a perverse monstrosity. He remembered his younger self, so full of vim and vigour and _values_ – a true Weasley, even when he sometimes fumbled with the last. And now, here he stood, hard-on throbbing in front of his family, a closet degenerate as he fantasised about his wife and best friend in all manner of unspeakable situations.

He was the worst. A failure of a father. A husband of humiliation, haemorrhaging the little dignity he had left.

“Okay kids, it’s time,” Harry called, startling Ron out of his self-flagellation. “Make sure you don’t leave anything behind.”

Hermione pranced to Harry’s side, taking the lead with him effortlessly. Ginny stood aside, watching the kids walk past with a sad smile, joining Ron’s side behind them.

“They’ll be fine,” she muttered to herself as much as her brother, an attempt at reassurance. He smiled at her, a broken thing shared with her own, walking solemnly behind their kids as if heading to the gallows.

The brilliant red of the train’s shining gleam shimmered, reflecting the sun’s rays beautifully. His wife turned around, eyes teary as she looked at their shared spawn with seasonal emotion, sharing only a brief glimpse with him. “Remember to find a compartment early, check your luggage for anything missing, and don’t panic. We can send you anything you’ve forgotten when you get there,” she fretted, anxious at the imminent split—

—and Harry put her hand in his, rubbing soothing circles as she turned to him, doe-brown eyes framed by wet lashes looking up to be greeted by his warm, comforting smile. She swallowed, smiling to compose herself, and turned back to the children… and not a single one thought the exchange was odd, or strange, or _intimate_. It was _normal_ , Ron thought with a jealous hope, for them to be so close – to take comfort in each other, to behave as if _man and wife—_

There was a roaring in his ears, blotting out the rest of the world – a chasm bereft of sense. He moved, he was certain, and spoke as he should, and saw the kids off with the same vitality that was expected of him at his peak, and altogether kept it together even as his fingers grew clammy, his vision narrowed, his ears filled with blood, _his penis pulsed with impotent prurience…_

He was the worst.


	2. The Olympian Concern

They had left the station with an odd mixture of cheer and sorrow, an experience unique to parents. It was expected, Ron supposed, that they would go out after and have lunch as had occurred in previous years – except, of course, all the children had gone off to school this time. There was no one else but them; no buffer between them to distract him.

His wife and his best friend smiled warmly at each other, their familiarity bringing an equally familiar ache. Hermione stood next to him, her melodic voice soothing the air itself as she conversed with the most powerful wizard of their generation. Their chemistry, built on years of trust and companionship (and attraction, Ron mused distractedly), was as evident as Ginny’s winter flush beside them, even if Ron seemed to be the only one aware of it.

“When are you coming over?”

He came back to himself, a blend of fantasy and reality attaching debauched meaning to the question before he was able to dismiss it with mountainous restraint, ignoring the lingering remnants of hope. “Ah, we’ve still to complete five-ninety-two and… seven-twelve-c? I think we’re best to start hammering at it early. You know that those piranhas will become ravenous at the slightest whiff of ‘injustice’,” Harry jested, sharing the amusement between them.

“How about tomorrow then? My place this time?” she offered, Ron’s ownership unwittingly denied.

“Mm,” Harry acceded. “It’ll have to be after hours, though. There’s a meeting starting at twelve and you _know_ it’s going to go well past the scheduled block.”

Hermione’s tinkling yet knowing laugh floated across, bright smile and sparkling eyes greeted by Harry’s roguish grin. “And what about you, Ginny? Any time for some ‘girl-talk’ now that the kids have left the nest?”

She grimaced. “Not likely. Cuffe has been riding me to up the sensationalism, not that he calls it that. Hopefully once Hogwarts’ teams are established he’ll give me some leeway, given my access to our ‘insider sources’,” she quoted mockingly.

“Can’t blame him for being excited. I’m sure he’ll calm down soon,” Hermione reassured her, empty words filled only by warmth, though enough to receive a weak smile in return.

Almost perfunctorily, they turned to him. “How ‘bout you, Ron? I can reassign Adams to take your shift if you wanna hang out after we’re done,” Harry offered.

“No,” he countered quickly – too quickly. “No, I’d feel bad,” he offered sheepishly, the courteousness drawing a smile from Hermione, yet there was a slight frown of concern on Harry’s face.

“If you’re sure,” he offered searchingly once more, Ron’s weak smile enough to grant him temporary reprieve.

Harry and Hermione returned to their conversation, the slight stilted awkwardness from his inclusion washed away within seconds in the face of their familiar warmth. Ginny ate leisurely, seemingly not at all concerned with the clear depth of their relationship, simply listening with customary attention.

And he sat quietly, placid yet surging with humiliated debauchery, left alone to wallow in his depravity as the seductive dance played in front of him. The conversation flowed with an ease that he could never match, open for everyone to watch and judge freely, their ease and attraction as evident as the light in their eyes.

He wondered sometimes what Ginny saw. Did she see the insurmountable mountain that was the duo’s relationship? Or was she so desensitised to it from repeated exposure and placating words that it was the norm – as much a reality as magic? Did she feel jealous? Was there a quiet simmering rage underneath, a hidden desire to let the hellish spitfire of her youth be free?

… Or was she like him, aching for them to demonstrate their undeniable attraction? To consummate their connection and prove the unassailable depths of their attachment? To show that no matter how much she loved her husband, he would always love another more – _would_ _fuck her_ _harder_ _, mould her to his superior cock, make her moan and scream and cum_ —!

“Ron!” Hermione called softly, shaking his shoulder slightly, the concern she wore mirrored by the table’s other occupants – and, he realised, bringing the curious attention of the tables around them.

He flushed lightly, sinking into his chair “’m fine, ‘mione,” he assured embarrassedly, looking around self-consciously. Ginny was the only one to do the same. Both his wife and best mate continued to stare, worried and caring as always. “Really. Just needa get more sleep,” he deflected self-deprecatingly, knowing his schedule was not nearly as busy as either of their own, knowing his excuse would reflect the weakness within.

Neither of them bought it, but they seemed willing to let it go. “Maybe we should finish for the day,” Hermione suggested, Harry nodding his agreement. Ginny gave her acquiescent, though she seemed less than pleased to do so – a fact Ron noticed.

“No, it’s a’right,” he curtailed. “I’ll head to the bathroom ‘n’ splash some water on m’face,” he slurred, yawning as he finished.

He left as quickly as he could without drawing suspicion, the duo’s concern following him like a shadow. He burst into the bathroom as carefully as he could manage, splaying his hands on the porcelain either side of the sink, head hunched. True to his word, he turned the taps and cupped his hands, throwing the water upwards, recoiling only momentarily.

‘I’m losing it,’ he mused with hysterical amusement. ‘I’m – I can’t—’

He shook his head, splashing more water into his face, looking up to stare at those _filthy,_ _perverse_ _desires_ hiding in his eyes, shaded only by the _shame_ and _guilt_ and _the knowledge of his absolute_ _inadequacy._ His head bowed once more and closed his eyes, his thighs grinding against the porcelain – the only stimulation he deserved.

‘No,’ he chastised, ‘not even this. I don’t deserve – this isn’t…’

Herculean effort stopped his rounded thrusts, his penis whimpering and straining ineffectually against the fabric of his pants. Unwittingly he thrust again, shuddering against the unforgiving ceramic and leaning his forehead on the mirror as he rolled against the sink once more before he was able to contain himself.

‘ _Pathetic_ ,’ he heard her cruel whisper in his mind, his shuddering exhale conveying his agreement.

He stood there leaning against the sink for several minutes, enough for the mirrored glass to warm under his cheek and for his breath to fog beneath. Enough to worry his sister. Enough to worry his friends.

Enough to bring Harry inside.

* * *

 “You alright, mate?” Harry announced his presence, concern palpable as he held his shoulder comfortingly.

Ron turned to look at him, hyper-aware of the touch. He gave a weak smile. “Mm, probably just a bit under the weather,” he doubled-down, clamming up virgin-tight.

“Maybe you should see a healer? Saint Mungo’s isn’t too far; I can take you,” Harry offered reassuringly.

He shook his head emphatically. “No, I’m right. I just – need a minute,” he offered weakly in return.

Harry remained worried. “Something’s going on, mate. This isn’t the first time this has happened. Look at you: you’re clammy, your face is hot, you’re hunched over. You’re worrying me – us,” he amended.

Ron gave a brittle smile. “It’s not something to go to Mungo’s for. Really, I’m good.”

He was unconvinced, and even more worried. “‘Not something to go to Mungo’s for’? Have you been already? Do you know what’s going on? Is it – is it serious?”

“No, no, no, nothing like that,” he quickly reassured – too quickly. Harry’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Look, Harry, I appreciate your concern – really, I do, all of you – but I’m fine. Really!”

“‘I’m fine’,” Harry repeated again. “You’re saying that to _me_?” he questioned, a hint of amusement shining through.

“What?” he asked, taking the bait.

“I’m normally the one who says that. ‘mione always calls me out for it,” Harry riposted, yet couldn’t help but notice the stiffening of Ron’s shoulders as he spoke, nor his slightly forced chuckle.

“You know I’m full of it when I say it, too,” Harry continued casually, feeling the slight relaxing of his shoulders underneath his hand. “But you don’t pry. I appreciate it at the time, but it’s not always the most helpful – I do appreciate it though, really. ‘mione, though,” he explained, feeling the tensing again, “she pushes until she gets an answer. And while I don’t like it at the time, I know I’ll feel better after I talk it out.”

Ron was silent for a long moment. “She’s pretty smart, isn’ she,” he murmured, long-standing and loving reverence colouring his voice.

“Mm, she is. Which is why I listen to her advice, including… _to talk to someone_ ,” he offered as if it were a secret. “Life is meant to be experienced with others. It’s harder when you make the choice not to, especially when there are so many people who care about you and are willing to help, if only you’d accept it.”

Ron smiled self-deprecatingly. “Don’t say that without knowing what the problem is,” he half-warned, half-hoped.

Harry chortled. “Maybe you’re right, but so long as you haven’t killed someone… Well, probably even then. But, one step at a time. Tell me. _Let me help_ ,” he urged.

Ron was silent once more, noting with passing amusement how he would have immediately shut down similar queries in his youth. Long moments passed as he turned the request over in his head, the honesty in his friend’s voice an unneeded yet appreciated reminder of his stalwart support. They had been friends for years, even during their teenage spats; Harry had always given his support, and Ron tried his best to do the same. What was the harm in telling him? Why couldn’t he share the burden? Why couldn’t he tell his best mate?

‘ _You know why,_ ’ his wife’s voice returned, cruel and seductive. ‘ _Because he’s a good friend, he’ll do it. He’ll participate in your disgusting little fantasy – will fuck me like I need… and then he’ll take me away, steal me from you. But then,_ ’ she mused sadistically, ‘ _that’s what you want, isn’t it_ _?_ ’

He swallowed, feeling his heart beat erratically. He opened his mouth and prepared to speak a truth that had never before touched his lips.


	3. Zeus' Awareness

Harry had expected many things. An embarrassing experience, a gambling or potion addiction, a terminal disease; all of them were possibilities that he could, with increasing sobriety, anticipate and deal with accordingly.

The truth _was_ embarrassing. And relieving, and… strange. And, he admitted to a dark part of himself, all too tempting.

“I love Hermione,” Ron had started, seemingly a non sequitur. “I – I do, in spite of what we might talk about ‘ere.”

Harry thought it sounded like an admission of guilt. As if he had cheated on Hermione. He… wasn’t sure if he could forgive that.

Ron’s exhale seemed damning. “I’ve loved her for a long time – probably longer than I know. Or even longer than she knows, or you. I’m… she’s perfect,” he emphasised strongly, Harry nodding his head seemingly in agreement.

He stared for a long moment, lost, unsure how to continue. Harry burned with the need to continue.

“Did you… cheat on Hermione?”

Ron’s absent expression cleared, confusion taking its place, before his eyes grew wide. “No! Merlin’s beard, no, why would you think that?”

“It seemed as if you were trying to ease me into it,” Harry explained, a hint of relief colouring his voice.

“That’s – not – no! Never,” the redhead declare emphatically, his friend smiling at his conviction.

“So…?” Harry prompted after a moment.

“I’m not cheating,” Ron said quickly yet quietly. “I’m not, but…”

He went silent for a moment. “She’s not cheating on you, Ron,” Harry answered bemusedly. “She doesn’t have the time even if she wanted to.”

“I know,” he retorts breathlessly. “I know. But…”

It was silent again, this time Harry refusing to interrupt with his assumptions. And what assumptions could he make? ‘It’s about Hermione, and something to do with cheating, and if Ron was to be believed – and I do – then he wouldn’t ever cheat on her. Is there… Is he tempted? Or does he still think that she is, even knowing she wouldn’t cheat on him?’

It was a confusing mesh of indecision and uncertainty, even for Harry. Ron’s next words didn’t alleviate it.

“… I want her to,” his red-headed friend confessed, shoulders hunched, head lowering even further as if to drown himself in the sink.

“You ‘want her to’?” Harry asked absently, lost. “What do you mean?”

Ron was silent yet again, a common theme as he worked through the humiliation, ignoring the heat building in turn. “I… Do you know what a ‘cuckold’ is?”

“Mm,” his spectacled support agreed, “the McGuiness case, remember?”

“Yeah, but – there’s a… different kind of meaning, even though it’s kinda the same. It’s… a desire for it. A – A fetish,” he explained hesitantly. “I’ve tried to ignore it,” the redhead justified, “really I have. Years of avoiding and rejecting it, telling myself it’s wrong – _so, so wrong_. But I can’t—”

He half-laughs, half-shudders, and hates himself all the while.

“I know she loves me,” he babbles. “I know she’s a good woman – the perfect wife. I know our life is great, doing what we enjoy even if it’s difficult sometimes. So why can’t I stop thinking about it? Why can’t I just be happy with what I have?”

Harry gave him his space, as much as he wanted to reach out. “It’s alright, Ron. You have a fetish, so what? It’s hardly the end of the world—”

“That’s not all,” Ron interrupted, shaking his head. “It’s – there’s more. It’s not like – I don’t even want her to be with another woman, which would make it less humiliating. And I don’t wan’ her to be with just any guy – some dick from a bar who wouldn’t appreciate her.”

He paused, steeling himself. “I—I… I want you to do it. I want you to—”

“Ron,” Harry interrupts firmly, a hint of sharp reproach evident even as his mind spun out of control. He pauses for a moment, both of them silent. “Think about what you’re saying. What you’re asking… it’s – there’s a line that shouldn’t be crossed. It’s not something that you can just take back—”

“I know! I know,” the ginger rushed, “but I can’t stop myself. I don’t know how to deal with it. I’ve tried everything! Hell, I even tried meditating,” he said with a grimace. “ _M_ _editating_ , mate!”

“What about your sister – my _wife_? Have you thought about her?”

Ron’s grimace deepened, tinged with self-loathing. “I know what I’m asking. Ginny… well, she’s a bit wild, i’n’ she? Even if you told her, I think she might agree.”

“Agree? To cheating on her?” The implied ‘are you nuts’ smacked Ron in the face. “Have you met your sister?”

“Okay, but does she have to know?” he doubled down in desperation. “You’ve worked together all these days and nights without her saying anything – no one else would have to know!”

Harry shook his head, clearly ashamed of his best friend. And while it hit Ron that he had damaged his friend’s perception of him, maybe irreparably, there were two things more immediately important: the desperate need for his acquiescence, and the overpowering _burn_ of humiliation.

He didn’t need to be guilted forever. Just those first few steps. All he needed to do was say _yes_.

“Please,” he begged impotently, pathetically, all the while burning hotter. “I’ve tried, mate, so hard. I can’t ignore it anymore. You saw! I’m barely holding it together. I spend my days in the office wondering, _fantasising_ , and I can’t stop! And when I’m in the field, I’m no use to anyone. It’s dangerous! I’m dangerous.”

His best friend looked uneasy. His heroism was his weakness, and Ron knew it. Give him someone to save and he’d try his very best; give him a friend in need and he wouldn’t rest until they were at peace.

“… Give me some time to think about it,” Harry acceded tiredly.

Ron, with a burst of relief and guilt and excitement and _heat_ , nodded thankfully.

They had both returned to lunch that day consumed by thoughts borne from their conversation. Harry, as a consummate yet oxymoronically honest politician, hid the turmoil with practised ease. However, he could never have hidden his considering eyes passing over his feminine best friend, nor could he hide the darkening desire from her red-headed husband.

 _Success_.


	4. Tyndareus' Foresight

Hermione had noticed Ron was in better spirits after returning from the bathroom that Friday lunch. It would have made her feel better if Harry hadn’t looked like he’d had that same spirit leeched out of him. Still, she didn’t have time to contemplate the meaning after they had left; she had only scheduled time for the morning to be free, as was expected of a diligent Minister.

She had returned home after a long day of agonising meetings and equally agonising thoughts of her children now out of reach to find her husband cooking, multiple stoves assaulting her with savory smells the moment she walked through the door.

“Oh?” she questioned, surprised.

She was equally surprised when he whipped around, startled, but his shock morphed quickly into a blazing smile. “Hey ‘mione,” he greeted, leaning down to kiss her chastely, heedless of her bags moving behind her with coordinated precision.

“And what have I done to deserve all this?” she asked teasingly.

“Well, I figure I had the day off so I might as well put myself to good use. Plus, well, I had a feeling you’d have a bit of a day given the kids are all at school now.”

“Oh, I’m sure you had no other intention at all,” she said with playful sarcasm, determined to keep momentum.

Her husband waggled his eyebrows comically before spinning around at a sputtering hiss. With a deft hand he removed the pots from the heat, the burners automatically shutting off, and waved his hands ineffectually to dissipate the steam.

“Just in time,” Ron announced with a flourish through the vapour. “Spaghetti and meatballs. And salad, I guess,” he offered intentionally half-heartedly.

His wife had sprawled in her chair and was perfectly positioned to give him an amused look of derision. He held his hands up mock-defensively, ignoring what her expression did to him.

“Do you want me to dish it out for you?”

“Mm,” she acceded with a thankful hum.

In minutes, they both sat in their chairs, eating with the comforting leisure offered to a couple married for almost two decades. The silence was odd, both having grown use to the chatter of children filling the void, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Still, both were at a loss as to how to fill it.

So, instead, they sat in the quiet and let their thoughts roam. Hermione, dedicated and faithful, thought of her work, and more, her children; thought of how much she missed them already, wishing they were still there with them.

And Ron, emotions still raw, thought of yesterday. Not seeing off his kids, no, though that was important to him too. He thought more of things with more _immediate_ importance. He thought of lunch at the café, and more, the adjoined bathroom. He thought of a conversation he thought he would never have. He thought of their return; of his best mate’s eyes devouring his wife. He thought of what it all meant, and how it made him feel.

And he stiffened, pulsing with need. But he refused to touch, refused to give in and satisfy himself just as he had abstained for days previous, knowing his lust was the only thing that kept him from going to Harry and begging him to forget it all – to return to a life of safe, dissatisfied _sanity._

The conversation never quite picked up, even though a few ventures were made. If nothing else, he made sure to ask her about her day, whether she needed anything, how the food tasted, how she felt about the kids leaving the nest; all the types of questions expected of a devoted husband.

It paid off exactly as expected.

His tongue was inside her, tasting her, edging against the rougher flesh of her G-spot as her muscles pushed down on him. Her uneven breaths battered his eardrums, each sound lifting him up, sending him soaring with religious adoration. Yet it was a warm-up more than anything. He had learned exactly how to drive her to her peak over years of practice, and while effective, his tongue alone was insufficient.

Instead of probing, he wrapped around her clit, vacuum-sealing around her beautiful pulsing flesh. Only then did his hand drift, not towards his penis, but to his wife’s cunt. A finger separates, running along the weeping juices, gathering the essence gifted so generously. It enters, slow and steady, curved in seconds to return to where it’s needed most.

Her breathing increases. The musk is intense – overpowering. It folds into her curls, his nose buried gratefully into them, inhaling with desirous need. Another finger joins the last, curling and caressing as the suction increases, breaths taken only to lightly nibble against the engorged bundle, a gesture of adoration she clearly appreciated.

“Ron,” she breathes, the sound shooting to his prick. But he can’t help himself; can’t help but imagine another name escaping from his wife’s perfect lips, a moan of wanton hunger she could never offer to him.

He dives further, selfish imagination fuelling a selfless act. He swallows around her, each gulp taking more of her essence into himself, _unworthy_ as he was for such a privilege. Each gifts him an almost imperceptibly deeper breath, a slightly heavier hitch as her fingers tangle in his ginger locks, pushing him further down as she grinds against his face.

Her shudder starts small, but he doesn’t let up, determined to give her the gratification she deserves. He sucks harder even as his tongue begs for relief, thrusts with his fingers as she clamps down on them over and over _and over_. He’s given her juices with each clench, a reward he gulps down with guilty pleasure, knowing he doesn’t deserve her.

Her fingers no longer tangle but instead rest atop his head, stroking through his hair like a beloved pet rather than a husband. He stays there, basking in her glow, smelling – _inhaling_ – the still pungent scent of sex with euphoria.

“Mm,” she hums with contentment between laboured breaths. “That was wonderful.”

Ron looks up at her, absently giving her mons a kiss. Smiling, he says nothing, just nestles back into her folds submissively, giving affectionate kisses and loving licks as she continues to play with his hair. She leaks more for him, but not nearly enough for a repeat performance, but he continues his slow worship nonetheless.

He expects – _desires, dreads_ – her offer of reciprocation. While almost never _enthusiastically_ , she had generally, graciously, afforded him an exchange, as was expected of a loving wife. He had excuses prepared to rebuff her, determined to withhold himself. Seconds passed, his tongue continuing even as his jaw ached, her fingers not stopping their gentle caress, and the apprehension built as his excuses escaped his mind.

There was no call for equal offerings. He waited, and waited, and waited, and nothing escaped except his wife’s pleased hums unintentionally egging him on. Before long his tongue grew too tired to continue, his chaste kisses atop her pussy replacing it, the redhead expecting the switch to be the catalyst for her offer yet being unable to stop it, hoping for the courage to deny her. And yet, still, nothing. With a last kiss to her hidden pearl, he slowly slithered up the bed, careful so as not to draw her attention—

“I’m sorry, Ron,” she spoke, freezing him in place as she stared down compassionately. “I’ve had a really long day today. Do you mind if we take a rain-check?”

Relief warred with humiliation. He had never been pre-emptively declined by his wife, especially after having done the same for her. _‘Does she suspect anything? Does she know? Have I done anything? Has Harry told her?’_

But no, there was no glint of recognition or knowledge or cunning in her eyes, just exhausted tenderness with a hint of condolence. He knew that if he requested her participation she wouldn’t decline; or even if he had _hinted_ that he was disappointed, unintentionally or not. But, of course, he readily acceded to her, as caring and compassionate as he was able, disguising his relief in the guise of a favour.

But he couldn’t help but imagine.

* * *

“Okay, I’m off. Love you,” Ron announced, hurriedly buttoning his pants up. The sound of dishes being cleaned greeted him, clanging away in the sink to the tune of Hermione’s will. Moving up behind her, he gave his wife a kiss on the cheek, encircling her in his arms. She leaned back into him, kissing his stubble from below.

“I love you. Be safe.”

“Mm, always,” he answered, leaning down and giving her a chaste kiss, her pleased hum greeting him. Yet, he hesitated, knowing the potential change looming on the horizon. “Have fun today.”

Hermione looked up, confused at the slight tone he injected into the words, but gave him a kind smile. “You too.”

The unintended burn of humiliation left him hot, evident from the visible swallow, but his wife either didn’t see it or didn’t think it important enough to bring up. With a final squeeze and a quick kiss, he bid his last goodbye, moving through the floo with practised ease.

Anticipation filled him, even knowing the very real possibility that Harry would refuse, or that Ginny would stymie the idea if Harry chose to inform her. But even that just added fuel, another log to a pyre signalling his desires to the sky. He made a beeline straight for his best mate’s office, unable to resist or contain himself any longer.

Normally he’d go through the door without notice or hesitation, Harry having an open-door policy for any of his friends. But not for the first time, it didn’t feel right. It felt right to knock, a feeling only affirmed with the silent tingle of satisfaction he felt as his knuckles rapped against wood.

“Come in,” he heard through the oak. Steeling himself, burying the anticipation as deep as he could, he entered.

Harry was busy at his desk, papers strewn across in what seemed to be a haphazard maelstrom. Yet, his eyes kept track of them, carefully analysing details that only he could see, familiarity with his setup more than able to make up for the innate deficiencies of the layout. Several seconds pass before he looks up, his slight surprise evident as he spots him.

“Ron,” he greeted with a small amount of confusion. “You know you don’t have to knock.”

The redhead stumbles a bit, not knowing what to say. But, the freedom from yesterday – the relief of honesty – suddenly seemed a good choice. “It… didn’t feel right.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “I’m sure this sudden change has nothing to do with our conversation yesterday.”

They both knew it was rhetorical. Because of course it did; it had _everything_ to do with it. Nonetheless, he stayed silent – _deferential_.

“Close the door,” he demanded, Ron jumping to fulfil the command, not even having realised he’d left it open.

Green eyes narrowed further. “You were serious. It wasn’t just spur of the moment.” The silence that greeted him was as damning a confirmation as any.

“Do you realise what you’re asking? I mean, do you _really_ understand?”

Ron couldn’t help himself. “I know,” he was quick to riposte as respectfully as possible, but he couldn’t quite temper his excitement. “I know, Harry.”

“Hermione isn’t like you, Ron,” his friend continued, heedless of his acknowledgement. “She’s traditional when it matters to her, more than the blue-bloods who flood the halls of the ministry with all their pompous prancing. Her vows _matter_ to her.”

The redhead felt a sting at the slight. “I know, Harry,” he repeated. “They—Our marriage matters to me too,” he tried to justify around his amendment, knowing he couldn’t argue the value of vows when he was so willing to forsake them. “I love her. You know I do. And this wouldn’t change that.”

He conveniently ignored the siren’s call, so temptingly disguised in the dulcet tones of his wife, whispering sweet words of serendipitous destruction.

_‘He’ll take me away, steal me from you.’_

Ron didn’t realise his breath picking up; didn’t feel his pants shift ever so slightly, enough to draw attention; and certainly didn’t see his best mate looking at him with nauseating pity.

“I have a meeting,” Harry jolted him out of his musings, hiding his clenching jaw as he collected his papers. “We’ll talk for a bit after, _before_ I head over to see Hermione. All you need to do is say the word and we can forget all this ever happened.”

With that last hope, Harry left, leaving his red-headed friend standing there, a tingle of perverse anticipation running down his spine.


	5. Leda's Apprehension

Ron had come to him after the meeting, just as he had dictated. The ginger’s expression was resolute; even before the conversation began, Harry had resigned himself to the absurd lechery that was fast approaching. Still, he couldn't help but try.

“Have you thought about what happens if it goes _wrong_? What if your relationship can’t take it? What if _you_ can’t take it after everything’s said and done? It’s not exactly something you can forget once it happens,” explained Harry. “And that’s not even—what if Hermione and I…”

He trailed off, but he knew he needed to finish. If anything was going to salvage the broken remnants of a time before Pandora, he _needed_ to say it.

“For men, it’s easier to separate emotions from sex. Even so, for _Hermione_? With _our_ history, _our_ experiences?” Harry shook his head tiredly. “There’s no way that I could promise to keep it only sexual. And if I can’t—”

He exhaled – a deep, soul-crushing exhale. “There’s no way Hermione can either,” he continues, but Ron knows it’s a segue – that there’s something else in Harry’s words: a warning of what _would_ come to pass. _‘“And if I can’t”, what?’_

“ _If_ we go through with this, and that’s a big _if_ , there will be _permanent_ ramifications, even if we try and make it as physical and safe as possible.”

And Ron… had already thought about most of this. Could see it laid out in front of him, possibilities branching unendingly, a chessboard of moves splayed in his mind’s eye.

“I know it’s a risk, Harry. A big one. I’ve thought about it a lot,” he admitted distractedly. “I know that it’s something that can’t be undone. Everything you said… You have no idea how much it means that you’d tell me everything straight out.”

He wasn’t lying. Harry would never understand the desire that it built; would never feel that heady feeling of humiliation itching at him from the inside; that rush of agonising fear as the potential destruction of his life was laid down in front of him.

“But, mate, I wasn’t kidding when I said I’ve wanted this for years. _Years_ , Harry. Every day, denying myself, denying who I am. I can’t do that anymore. I _won’t_ do that anymore. When you asked and listened as I told you, and then _accepted_ me, that was the freest I’d felt in years.”

There was a part of Harry that wished he hadn’t pushed; that he had never found out about his friend’s secret desires. He squashed it – and the resentment – as soon as he found it, telling himself that his best friend should be free to be who he was, that he deserved happiness as much as anyone.

He didn’t realise his lust had strengthened the shoe to crush it; didn't realise his own desire, to _dominate_ and _fuck_ , had quashed the feeling as surely as his sense of justice and loyalty.

“ _I trust you_ , Harry,” he emphasised, pushing his meaning through as much as he was able. “I want this to be as much for you two as it is for me – more, even! I want you to not only accept it, but _enjoy_ it, just like I will. I don’t want you – either of you – feeling guilty.”

Harry choked up, the assurance strengthening his resolve as much as the red-head’s desperation. “… Alright, Ron. Okay. Just… tell me what you want.”

Ron’s smile was tender, the immediate relief a heavenly balm. “Do what feels natural, mate. I’ll do everything I can to make it easier for you both. I… haven’t told her anything though. I don’t even know how to begin. Have you told Ginny?”

Harry grimaced. “Mm,” he hummed painfully in the affirmative. “She was… understandably angry. More at you than me, I’ll warn you now. But when I left the choice to her, after laying everything out, well…”

Ron winced in return, knowing his sister’s ire would be immense. The rush of fondness for her over her apparently grudging approval outweighed the small sliver of guilt before it was buried further under the rush of exhilaration.

“You need to speak with her. But that can wait. More importantly, you need to speak with Hermione. It’s not fair for her to be the last to know,” he pointed out. “And this is all assuming she’ll agree at all.”

“She’ll agree,” Ron answered absently, eyes glazed with delusional longing, but the silence from Harry brought him out of it. “She… she will, won’t she?”

Harry remained silent, each moment building Ron’s trepidation. “Harry?”

“I don’t know, Ron. It was a miracle – a _miracle_ – that Ginny agreed, and even that I’m not sure will hold. Hermione, though… Well, I told you she was traditional. I don’t even know whether she’ll entertain the thought, let alone actually act on it, even knowing it was you who brought it up.”

The red-head’s trepidation built into alarm. “But… But she has to! You’re – you fit together perfectly! A-And if I give my blessing, she’d do it, right? Harry?”

His friend grimaced again. “I don’t know, Ron. _I don’t know_. You both gave your vows; I did say she takes those things seriously, with good reason. There’s a good chance she won’t accept.”

“Harry, please,” the Weasley begged, approaching panic, “can you talk to her? I don’t even know how to begin bringing it up. I’ll mess it up; I know I will! Please, mate?”

Harry’s face contorted into a reluctant frown. “This really is something you should talk to her about,” he deflected waveringly, only to see Ron’s nervousness grow. He waited a few seconds, praying it would diminish, that he’d see sense—

“Alright,” he exhaled, surrendering moments later when his friend’s torment remained. “Alright, I’ll talk to her.”

Ron’s agitation, once clear as the ocean, was swept away like the tide. “Thank you, Harry. Really… thanks,” he said, his gratitude and relief indisputable. Still, he couldn’t keep himself from apologising for the unreasonable request, his bespectacled brother waving him off with weary acceptance.

They split a few moments later, Ron’s lunch break over and Harry having to finalise a few things before moving on to Hermione’s. And if he took a few hours longer than he needed to, no one was around to call him out on it.

* * *

Hermione heard the rush of flames before she saw him.

“’mione,” he greeted warmly, walking up to hug her.

“Harry!” she exclaimed delightfully, accepting his arms around her, always eager for his affection. “I wasn’t expecting you for at least another few hours!”

He smirked sardonically. “It seems that for once the bureaucratic machine is working with only sub-par efficiency.”

She laughed, pulling back to look at him fondly. “Have you eaten?”

“No, but it can wait until we’ve finished the last minute adjustments. It shouldn’t take too long; I’ve done the prep work already.”

True to his word, not two hours after they’d settled into the couch did they finish, amendments completed and double-checked for unintended interpretations and loopholes. The skill had taken years, but they had both perfected the art of policy; the double-check was almost unnecessary at this point, but they’d grown fond of the familiar process and neither wanted to point out the redundancy of their procedures.

Soon enough, they had the previous day’s leftovers – spaghetti and meatballs – brought out of stasis, warm and ready. The meal tasted fresh, and was quite tasty, especially surprising when Hermione noted – with a small, hidden measure of disbelief – that Ron had cooked it.

“I think we’ll have to have Ron cook more often,” Harry found himself saying, chastising himself all the while.

The food was really quite impressive, so much so that when he suggested they bring out some wine, there was no question over the occasion. He sipped on his own as he ate slowly, each meatball eaten with exaggerated leisure to buy himself time, Hermione having finished her plate before he’d eaten half of his own. If she were in public, she wouldn’t have considered another glass, but at home, with one of the few people she trusted implicitly?

Three glasses later, Harry had only just finished his first with his plate.

“That was delicious,” he said, patting his stomach lightly. “Ron really outdid himself.”

“Mm,” she agreed, licking her lips above the rim of her glass. “If nothing else, I’m glad he got his propensity for cooking from his mother.”

_‘If nothing else'?_

“Well, I did say that he should cook for us more from now on,” he jested, yet with a light undertone of seriousness. She smiled sardonically, lips quirking at the edge.

There was a lull, and he couldn’t help himself. “Is everything alright? With you and Ron?”

She affected surprise, her expression quickly morphing into a deceitfully warm smile. “Of course. Everything’s fine.”

He could have stopped there. He could have left it alone. He could have even found another avenue to approach. His curiosity, however, had him speaking before he could reconsider. “You know you can tell me anything, right?”

Again, there was surprise, but this time the smile held genuine warmth – and a twist of something uncertain. “Mm,” she acknowledged, “I know. Thank you, Harry.”

They were both quiet, each more than comfortable in it – with each other. He dreaded having to pivot away from the companionable peace, to broach the topic he’d been strong-armed into pressing, but her voice carried before he could make the attempt.

“What made you ask?” she asked with a tinge of uncertainty. “Did Ron say anything?”

“No, no,” Harry was quick to respond. “I just thought things seemed a little strange at lunch yesterday.”

“It… was a little strange, yeah,” Hermione admitted after some thought, her mind wandering into the past. Her uncertainty built, rumination taking over, and not ten seconds later, the floodgates opened.

“I don’t know what’s wrong,” she confessed quietly, hesitation warring with the need for support. “Last night, he made us dinner – an amazing dinner, as you can attest to – and we went upstairs. Absolutely normal, right? Everything was perfect; the kids had left for school, the house was empty, the scene was… not romantic, exactly, but the kind of setup I prefer. Comfortable. He spent a while on me, l-licking me, and, you know…”

She trailed off, not exactly embarrassed after nearly four glasses of wine, but still not confident to continue the trail. Nonetheless, his expression remained kind – attentive – patiently waiting for her to continue without judgement, endearing enough that she just couldn’t help herself.

“At the end, after he’d made me… finish… I didn’t offer to… return the favour. I didn’t have any desire to, at all. I said I was tired – and I was! – but this wasn’t the first time I avoided it. Every time I have less and less interest in it, even though I still… you know, I feel the _need_ and everything, and I feel so much guilt about it all. But then I saw… I swear, Harry, I swear… he was relieved. Like he was _glad_ that I didn’t want to repay the favour.”

Her expression twisted, grief etched in her features. “I don’t know what went wrong – what’s _going_ wrong. I thought it was just everything piling on top of each other, from work to the kids, that it became too strenuous to really take some time to be together. But even without the added stress of the children, I still don’t find… sex, _him_ , to be a priority. No, not even that – it’s, it’s not even _wanted_. And now it seems like it’s not for Ron, either!”

“I know I’ve gained a bit of weight over the last few years. Has he stopped desiring me? Have I lost myself, become so unattractive that he’s _relieved_ when I’m not in the mood?” She crumpled, confidence expunged.

“No, Hermione,” Harry finally spoke, quickly, yet confidence infused in every word. “You’re so far off track, I can’t even—”

He shook his head, slowly but emphatically. “No. You’re _beautiful_ , Hermione,” he intoned, honest and profound, heedless of the light flush of embarrassment forcing her to look away. “God, so much could be explained if you two just had a proper conversation.”

Harry shook his head again, this time in perturbed disbelief. “I’m… I’m going to tell you some things now. They’re going to be shocking, but everything – or at least, everything _else_ – will make sense.”

She looked up at him, doe eyes peeking through lashes, unintentionally erotic for her confidante even considering the specks of confusion floating within. “Harry?”

“It’s about Ron,” he answered, “and you… and me.” He almost wished he brought a pensieve. But no, she deserved better than that – better than a memory of an explanation. More, she _deserved_ to hear it from her _husband._

“You remember yesterday, at the restaurant? Ron went into the bathroom, and I went after him when he was in there too long?” He waited for her confused nod, flecked with a growing anxiety as it was. “I found him bent over the sink, head pressed into the mirror, splashing water on his face. He was flushed. There was obviously something wrong. At first I thought he was sick – told him to go to Saint Mungo’s.”

He chuckled, amused at his naivety, but could see Hermione wasn’t growing any less concerned. “He’s fine, of course. Not… sick. He tried to tell me he was fine, and of course, taking a page out of your books, I called him on it. God, the way he spoke of you when I mentioned you… Hermione, never doubt he loves you. And I begged him to tell me what was wrong, to let me help – that he was worrying us.”

He swallowed, clearing his throat. “So, he did. He warned me first, said not to offer my help without knowing what the problem is. But he’s my best mate; _of course_ I was going to help.”

He paused for a long moment. “Harry?” Hermione’s worried dulcet escaped.

“Ah. I’m just… trying to word it,” he explained stiltedly. “It’s nothing to panic over. Just… it’s difficult to… explain. Or understand. Even for me, knowing what it is.”

Several moments pass in thought before he opens his mouth again. “Has Ron told you anything about the McGuiness case?”

Her confusion was answer enough.

“Ron brought it up to help explain, but it wasn’t really helpful. Still, I’m lost as to how to explain it otherwise. It was a case a few years ago. A wife was cheating on her husband; there was an altercation that wouldn’t de-escalate. He doesn’t think you’re cheating on him,” he was quick to reassure. “It was just kind of peripherally related. He mentioned a very specific word to me: cuckold. Do you… know what that is?”

“It’s a term used for a man whose wife is cheating on him. But he knows I’d never cheat on him. You said as much as yourself!” Hermione exclaimed, incensed.

“I know, I know,” he assuaged gently, her indignation mollified only to be replaced by confusion.

“But… what, then? How is it related?”

Harry grimaced, hesitating. “There’s apparently another definition of ‘cuckold’. It’s not so much that he thinks you’re cheating on him. It’s… he _wants_ you to cheat on him.”

The brunette flinched, wide-eyed.

“I don’t really understand it much myself,” he was quick to continue, hoping to cover the awkwardness. “He made it seem like it was almost a well-known thing. But apparently there’s a _fetish_ about having your spouse cheat on you. That’s… not all though.”

She raised her head blankly.

“He wants me to do it. He wants _us_ to do it. To have sex,” he affirmed gently.

And he sat there, waiting, letting it sink in. For both of them, really; he hadn’t had the time to really process it either. And what a thing it was to comprehend! A man, wanting his wife to _fuck_ another man? So much so that he would actually encourage it? To another married man, bereft of that need, it was ludicrous to imagine.

“You’re not joking,” she spoke suddenly in abrupt recognition, downing the rest of her glass. “Ron, he… he _wants us_  to have _sex_? _Ron_?”

Rhetorical question or not, he could understand the disbelief. Their younger years, while so long ago, didn’t exactly paint a picture of a man with such interests. Fiercely jealous, possessive, covetous; Ron had never given any indications, at school or after, that he was at all inclined towards such proclivities.

“ _Why_? What – we made _vows_. He _wants_  me to forsake them?”

“I won’t pretend to understand the psychology behind it,” Harry answers, “but what’s more pressing is that it’s there. And from what he’s told me, he’s had those… desires, for years. You should have seen him speak about it, ‘mione. I’ve never seen him look like that about anything. Passionate, desperate, needy; he was a wreck when I told him I didn’t think you’d agree.”

The manipulation was apparent, not that either of them thought of it as such.

“He _really_ wanted… it, Harry? Do you really believe that?”

He could only chuckle brokenly. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man want anything as badly as that.”

“I… what happens now? You can’t actually be thinking of going along with it,” she dismissed, audible hesitation evident in every word, visible in every minute expression.

“I’ve _never_ seen anyone want anything that bad before, Hermione. I’m not kidding. I asked him to give me time to think about it yesterday, and when he came in this morning… The _hope_ he had, even after I tried to dissuade him…” He shook his head, exhausted but amazed. “I don’t think he’ll be able to let it go anymore. It’s like now that he’s said it to someone else, out loud, he’s obsessed.”

“And what about Ginny? Have you told her anything?” she asked in hopeless desperation.

“Mm,” he conceded. “She wasn’t happy – understatement of the year – but she _grudgingly_ gave her consent.”

Her disbelief was unmistakable. “ _Ginny_ – Ginny _Weasley_ – gave her consent for us to have sex? For you to _cheat_ on her?”

“Mm,” he acknowledged once more. “I know. It seems like the whole world’s going mad.”

She reeled, her sister-in-law’s assent almost as outrageous as her husband’s desires. Instead, she thought back on her marriage, compartmentalising the absolute _insanity_ of the current situation away until she could process it.

Ron had never offered any overt clues – no confessions or statements that would indicate anything of the sort. But there had to be _something_. And, in some sense, there was. She remembered times when he’d look at Harry and her together with an odd sort of look, one she’d always chalked up to his characteristic jealousy. When she had to work late, there was sometimes, on rare occasions, a hitch in his voice coming through the floo, each time attributed to the crackling of the fire. While she couldn’t be sure, she would say that there was a good chance most of them – if not all – were when she mentioned Harry was there with her. Hermione knew that she may be misattributing, but it _made sense._

And then there were the _toys_. She had been perfectly content with his penis, his fingers, his tongue; she hadn’t been the one to introduce the novelties to their admittedly mediocre sex life. At first, they were standard vibrators; nothing extreme, and quite a pleasant addition alongside Ron’s own efforts. Then there were dildos, each progressively larger than the previous, until they eclipsed Ron’s own size. He even took to asking her to name them, as if they were living things. Their descent came to a stop when Ron had suggested butt plugs and significantly larger toys, her expression of discomfort when confronted by the idea enough to dissuade him from further pushing, but their forays in the bedroom nonetheless utilised the existing toys with increasing frequency.

All of it individually was tame, not enough to point to anything concrete, but it became more tangible when taken as a whole. And then, before he left that morning, his words…

“Okay,” she breathed. “Okay. Ron has a fetish. He wants us to… have sex. Ginny is… not happy – and that alone gives me enough hesitation to want to call it off – but she’s at least begrudgingly accommodating. What about _you_ , Harry? How do you feel about it?”

He should have expected the question. Of course if he was going to be do this, she would want to know what he thought. She’d want to know anyway because she valued his opinion, but especially if he was called upon to participate. Nonetheless, he was thrown off-foot by her wording. She made it seem like she was honestly considering it.

“’mione,” he hesitated to start, “We’ve known each other for what feels like forever, through thick and thin. I love you – both of you. I want you both to be happy. But I’ll be honest and tell you the same thing I told Ron: there’s no way we can keep this purely sexual. For that alone, we shouldn’t do this. You’re beautiful, and loving, and kind, and you deserve better than to have this pushed on you.”

She stared at him, wide-eyed and pink cheeked. She worried at her lip absently, yet continued to listen attentively.

“When he asked me to do this, I was an absolute mess of indecision. But having thought about it, and with Ron reassuring me even after me warning him against it, I can honestly say, even knowing we really shouldn’t… I’d like to give it a try.”

He watched her swallow, and even that now aroused him, encouraged to be so hyper-aware from his discussions with Ron, and now with Hermione herself. “The question now is what you want to do.” With that, he waited, the relief from having his part finished lifting an enormous weight off his shoulders.

Harry watched her, eyes kind and warm and understanding and compassionate. She couldn’t keep her eyes on his own, the intensity too strong for her after such a revelation. Instead, she stared into her wine glass, ostensibly contemplative rather than to avoid his piercing gaze.

“I… think I need to talk to Ron before anything else,” she submitted gently. She looked up, ever so briefly to see that same warmth still there, an everpresent pillar of support. “It doesn’t – I don’t think I should make a decision without speaking to him first.”

“Of course, ‘mione. Whatever you need,” he acknowledged respectfully, still staring at her with those unwavering eyes, that same tender smile.

She’d known her best friend was handsome. Their respective marriages didn’t suddenly make her blind to his attractiveness. But this was the first time since they’d said their vows that he invoked such a strong reaction in her; that she could feel his allure, not just see it. And, worse, it was so much more tempting now; his strength that had grown with age, his maturity that had come with experience… and her husband’s permission – nay, his _endorsement_ —

The words of promise Harry had spoken were _dangerous_.

To her. To Ron. To their marriage.

Yes, she definitely needed to speak to Ron.


	6. Leda's Bitterness

Harry left to return to work soon after, far less awkwardly than she expected. That, too, was worrying; _shouldn’t_ they feel awkward after that conversation, with so many emotions exposed?

Nonetheless, she spent the time in between Harry leaving and Ron returning home productively. She did what she always did when confronted by a problem: research. While embarrassing, the local library had a treasure trove of information, from scientific perspectives to qualitative opinions. And, to her embarrassment but not her surprise, erotica as well.

When Ron did finally return – later than usual, which she couldn’t help but suspect was to give the duo more time together – she was armed with the knowledge that she had been sorely lacking for her last conversation. He slowly opened the door, as if not to disturb them, not knowing their best friend had left several hours previous.

Rather than something sordid as he sorely hoped, he was greeted with his wife sitting across from the door in her standard plush armchair, hands folded in her lap as she looked directly at him.

“We need to talk,” she announced gently, as non-accusatory as possible. Nonetheless, he swallowed with visible dread. “I assume you know what this is about?”

He swallowed again. “… Harry came over, I take it?”

She smiled mildly, knowing they were on the same page. “He did.”

And she waited. She saw his eyes roam, as if looking for evidence; saw the hunger hidden oh so effectively taper off as he noticed nothing amiss, the dread once more returning, the panic building.

“We had a… an informative conversation,” she amended, watching the flicker of disappointment as his conclusion was confirmed. “There were things he said that were… shocking. Things I’d never thought about – never considered.”

She licked her lips, her husband’s eyes absently tracking them. Yet now, all she could think about when she noticed the flicker of movement was what he saw. Did he imagine her lips, claimed by his best mate? Her tongue, intertwined with that of her best friend’s? Or maybe her mouth, enclosed around _Harry’s cock_?

“I wanted to give you the chance to explain it to me in your own words.”

His mouth was dry. His stomach was fluttering. His heart was _bouncing out of his chest_. He cleared his throat.

“Hermione,” he croaked, swallowed, and then cleared it again. “I don’t… W-What has he told you?”

She smiled warmly, tenderly, the love in her expression soothing the all-encompassing anxiety down to a heart-skipping nervousness. “He told me that you had a ‘fetish’,” she explained gently, as if to a wild animal. “He told me that you’ve had it for _years_. And your desire involves you, and me, and _Harry_.” She almost sighs his name, watching how he reacts, needing to see the truth for herself.

His eyes dilate, the breathy almost-moan of his best friend’s name on his wife’s lips enough to spark a reaction, evident enough even from across the room, an almost unneeded confirmation added to the mounting pile. Ron swallowed again, his heart beating even faster. “And,” he cleared his throat, “what did you… think about it?”

Her expression turned contemplative, yet still remained compassionate – sympathetic. “I was shocked – at least at first. You’d never mentioned anything like it to me. But then I started putting the pieces together, and it… kind of made sense. I just – why didn’t you ever tell me?”

Ron looked down guiltily. “I didn’t know how to bring it up,” he confessed. “Every time I’d try I’d freeze up. That’s why I had Harry come to talk to you.”

“Wait,” she stopped him, freezing at the seeping realisation, “you… _asked_ him to talk to me?”

He looked perturbed at the apparent segue. “I told him I didn’t know what to say.”

Hermione sat back, wide-eyed. Harry hadn’t told her that – didn’t even hint at it. He only brought the conversation up when—

—when she thought it was _her_ fault. When she poured out her heart and soul, her marital and personal insecurities on full display – only then did he step in, telling her the cause behind it all. Would he have said anything if she hadn’t broken down? Or was it only when he needed to reassure her, to protect her, that he decided to tell her? Did he decide to at all, or was it just his instinct to shield her from harm?

“And have you – have you _thought_ about it?” Ron continued, apparently taking her silence as a queue to speak, yet was entirely unable to keep the hope from saturating his voice.

She looked at him absently, vaguely nauseous. She knew she shouldn’t make a decision in anger. She knew what she should say, what she was planning to say: that they should see a marriage counsellor before any decisions were made. She knew that there might be some underlying cause for his fantasies, something that needed to be examined and assessed by a trained professional, even though it could just be a kinky fantasy without anything nefarious about it. She knew all of it. Yet—

She couldn’t _quite_ stop the anger. Couldn’t _quite_ curb her contempt. Her husband had _abdicated_ his responsibility; he _refused_ to talk to her himself. He foisting that duty upon their best friend. And Harry went along with it, not because he was _cowardly_ or _gutless_ , but because he was _loyal_ ; and even then he hesitated, knowing it was unfair to her. It was only at the end when she was _hurting_ and _in pain_ that he stepped in, to do what _her husband_ would not – _could not_ – do.

And maybe it was the wine, or the bits of information she was able to read, or the memory of Harry’s loving, caring smile, or the times that Ron had let her – let _them_ – down when they needed him—

“After Harry left–” she didn’t comment on the flicker of disappointment in his eyes, but noted it nonetheless, “I started researching. It really is quite a common fantasy. Surprisingly so. I didn’t even have to search particularly hard for references to it.”

“It was quite… _interesting_ ,” she almost tasted the word. His involuntary reactions became more pronounced, each speaking to her in a way that he himself couldn’t, almost enough to delude herself into thinking her actions were for her husband – his benefit, his pleasure.

“I… Are you sure, Ron?” she offered, needing him to have at least this one opportunity. “Is this really what you want?”

There’s a half second before he explodes. “Yes,” he gasps without hesitation, no longer drowning. “Yes. Please,” he whimpers, eyes closing with relief.

He doesn’t see her look at him, eyes forlorn. He doesn’t see what he’s lost in that moment. Neither of them do.

* * *

Ron hurries to the floo, barely sparing time to detach his bags. In a moment, he’s swirling through the fire, exiting in through Harry’s office. Green eyes are focused on the paperwork in front of him when he hears the muted roaring of the flames, looking up to meet the ecstatic face of his friend.

“You’re in a good mood,” he greets, leaning back with a pitying half-smile.

Ron doesn’t notice, the relief and excitement purging him of concern. “She said yes. Mate,” he rasps, looking up to the ceiling, “you did it.” The redhead shudders. “S-She said yes!”

He looks him in the eyes for the first time. “Thank you,” he whispers, so broken and grateful that Harry can’t help but smile wistfully.

“She – She wants to go out. With you. She asked if you could be ready in an hour,” he rambles, stumbling over his words.

Harry rests his head on his hands, eyes narrowing seriously. “And you, Ron? Is that what you want? For me to take Hermione out?”

The euphoric expression of relief would have been answer enough. “I’ve never wanted anything more,” Ron confesses.

Harry pauses, the sincerity taking him aback in spite of everything. He’s not sure what to say; he can’t think of any words that could derail the mistake his friend was intent on making. The image of the alternative if he puts his foot down – of some interloper bringing Hermione pleasure in Ron’s ( _Harry’s_ ) stead – makes him unbearably sick.

He doesn’t know that his consent is integral; that Ron doesn’t just _want_ him to be the one to fuck Hermione, but that he _needs_ him; that it wasn’t simply some fickle preference as the redhead had implied the day previous, but that _no one else_ could fill that gluttonous void.

If he knew, maybe he would have had the strength to make a different choice.

“Alright,” he sighs in acknowledgement instead as he shakes away the nausea, an unseen thread disappearing without a trace. “Well, I suppose I should finish up here and get ready. Can’t keep her waiting,” he muses lightly in acceptance, watching with fascination as the red-head's eyes dilate with bliss.

“I’ll be over in around an hour,” he promises, going back to his paperwork in a clear dismissal. He drops the façade only after he hears the telltale bolt of fire heralding the return of his solitude, massaging his weary eyes with mounting apprehension.

“Ron…”


	7. Tyndareus' Dream

Ron arrived home in a characteristic swirl of flames to be greeted by an empty lounge room. A muted splash of water drew his attention, the sound coming from the bathroom upstairs. Hermione was in there, getting ready for her _date_.

He climbed the stairs, hiding his eagerness from a non-existent audience. He hears the sudden rush of water; can imagine the bare curves hidden behind the door, rising sinuously out of the tub. Their bed sat empty, waiting, comforting him as he rested on the silken sheets. There was nothing to do but wait.

Yet waiting had its own dangers. An amalgamation of fantasies, sewn together, splayed in front of him. Each brought a pang of depraved delight with them, a wonderful tapestry of debauchery, getting darker and more horrible with each thread.

The door opened with a quiet rush of air, the steam drifting from his wife’s body breaking his fixation on the familiar fantasies. Unable to help it, he followed the cloying vapour, from her dainty feet up to her long, smooth legs. Her towel covered everything from mid-thigh up to her collarbone, but even what little was visible was alluringly feminine.

And her face. Full lips, pert nose, doe-brown eyes. Familiar. Comforting.

‘ _Beautiful_.’

* * *

Hermione looked at her husband solemnly. She had time to think in the bath, to pacify the anger over his betrayal – a betrayal she knew he didn’t know about, and certainly didn’t understand. She had expected to come out and talk with him, explain what she saw and how she felt; had wanted to make amends and call the entire thing off. She was certain she could have coerced him into seeing a professional with her, even if it was immoral to compel her husband in such a way.

But then he looked up at her. Her husband, the man she loved, the father of her children, stared at her with such devotion – such genuine adoration, such fervent hope – that she was rendered speechless.

What could she _do_? How could she ruin the happiness he’d found, no matter how fetid the seed?

“I need to get ready,” she said weakly instead, watching the fervour of her husband’s resulting smile with a pang of loss. Their built-in contains all manner of dress courtesy of expansion charms and the requirements of her job, from flowing gowns to faded jeans. But for a _date_?

She was completely out of her depth.

There was a smack of realisation, an uneasy clarity creeping up on her. “Do you – that is, the minimal research I did before you came home said that some husbands liked to… ‘prepare’ the wife, by picking out their clothes and such. Did you… want to do that?”

She never imagined such a request ever escaping her lips, and certainly not in that context. It feels like some kind of bizarre nightmare, not the least because of how sordid their life had become. He’d never had an interest in fashion. Neither of them had, really.

The acceptance, bereft of contrition if not shame, was enough to remind her that this was not the same man she married. They went through their closet, her husband’s eyes glazed as he glanced across the options available, lingering on a few pieces more than others. In the end, they chose a figure-hugging blue dress with accompanying heels, Ron dismissing the red alternative after a long glance. The sheer black lingerie bought nearly a decade ago, forgotten about and almost never used despite its comfort, is a surprisingly welcome choice. Nonetheless, she feels a lingering unease; she knows she needs to curb his enthusiasm before it gets out of hand.

“Ron,” she calls out hesitantly, watching him turn away from the clothes. “I may go on a date today, but anything more than that… I’m still coming to terms with everything, and I’m sure Harry feels the same. I just don’t want you getting your hopes up.”

“Of course,” her husband says, the reassuring words at odds with the rapid nod that accompanies it. “I just want you to try it. If it’s not for you, that’s okay.”

She’s not sure if it’s the truth, but she appreciates the attempt regardless. With a weak smile of gratitude, she turns to the spread of clothes. “Alright. Well, I suppose I should change.”

The towel drops, Ron’s eyes tracing every curve with awe. But there’s guilt, too, illogical and oppressive. He turns away as she puts on the first piece – the black underwear, he notes absently – and leaves the room to give her privacy she didn’t ask for, nor wanted if he were inclined to ask.

He stays downstairs, staring at the staircase, ears perking at the slightest noise. He hears the door upstairs swing open a half-hour later, after fantasies had taken ahold of his senses, and waits with burgeoning anticipation for his wife’s descent.

The steady sound of heels drawing closer and closer filled him with a fanatic kind of foresight, illusions transposed on where she would land. Yet nothing could have prepared him for the sheer vision that settled at the first step. Not because of the blue dress, form-hugging as expected; not due to the healthy natural blush staining her cheeks; nor the pronounced silken lashes surrounding permanently warm, chocolate brown orbs.

It was her smile. Hesitant, shy, but _real_ in a way uniquely Hermione; a smile he had not seen on her face in years. Never had it been clearer to Ron that he had made the right choice.

He swallowed, transfixed. “You look _beautiful_ , ‘mione.”

Her smile grew a touch warmer, hiding the lingering insecurities with the sudden boost of courage.

“He’ll be over soon,” her husband blurted out. “Do you… know where you’re going?”

Hermione’s expression flashed with remorse. “I’m not sure,” she acceded tentatively, uncomfortable with the reminder of the upcoming night, reluctance biting at her heels. “I suppose we’ll go somewhere to eat?”

Ron’s breathing audibly increased. “Of course,” he choked out.

“We can still cancel,” she pleaded, hiding her hope that he’d call this madness off. “I’m certain Harry won’t mind.”

Her husband’s expression grew stricken. “No, no,” he countered quickly. “Just – please, try it out.”

“Okay,” she soothed reassuringly, seeing her husband’s distress. “He’ll still be a little while, though. I’d… like to talk to you, until he comes.”

It was strange, coaxing her husband as if he were a scared child. Even his nod, hesitant and scared, twisted something inside of her. She wasn’t quite sure what it was.

Still, likely to make sure she’d still go along with the night, he gave his acquiescence, sitting on the lounge with his knee jumping in anxiety. She sat across from him, legs crossed at the knee, watching with a brief hint of hope as his eyes hungrily trailed her legs.

“I’ve been… curious,” she starts hesitantly, his eyes shooting to hers before looking down again, this time to his lap. “I don’t… understand. Any of it, really. But I’d like to.”

He visibly swallows again, and she can’t help but notice how often he’d been doing it recently. It’s involuntary, she knows, but it speaks to a level of nervousness, or trepidation, or even excitement that she couldn’t quite fathom. But she wants to; wants to know how he finds pleasure in what he’s requesting of her, how he not only allows but _encourages_ it.

“I don’t… understand it myself, ‘mione. All I know is I can’t help but want it,” he offers hopelessly, helplessly, _desperately_. “I only know what I _feel_.”

“And how _do_ you feel, Ron? What do you think of?”

His knee jumps more frequently, almost violently. “I feel… hot, but cold. It’s a hunger, ‘mione, and feeding it… fantasies… only seems to make it stronger. It’s like an itch I can’t help but scratch.”

“But then isn’t making it real only going to make it worse?” She can’t help the note of concern, and she sees as he notices it, watching him shut down a little bit. She can see his fear, that he would unwittingly convince her to call it off herself.

“It’s getting worse anyway,” he ripostes hastily. “Maybe if it happens I can finally get over it.”

She knows he doesn’t believe it. She doesn’t believe it. She’s certain that Ron knows she doesn’t believe it. Neither of them call attention to it.

“Okay,” she allows instead, seeing him relax ever so slightly. “And… what do you fantasise about? Specifically?”

She tries to keep an almost clinical approach to it. She’s not sure she succeeds.

“I… everything, ‘mione,” he replies falteringly, and oddly, she knows it’s not a diversion or non-answer as the words imply. It’s a genuine response.

“Everything?”

“Everything you can imagine. And probably more,” Ron admits, knee picking up the pace again.

He doesn’t offer anything else. She can see the caution – can feel his reluctance. She needs to know what he means, is going to push… when flames rush through the fireplace, and eyes as green as the fire peer out from them. She can’t help the rush of affection she has at seeing him, can’t temper the relief she feels at his presence. Still, she looks at Ron—

And sees him staring at the flames, eyes wide. His visage is haggard in a way she’s never seen, knee no longer bouncing but instead deathly still, much like the rest of his body. She sees him, and wants to call it off _immediately_ … when she notices it.

He’s hard.

Harder than she’s seen him in years.

She breathes out deeply, the words of ruin dying in her throat, ashes in the wind. And instead, she rises from her chair to greet her date.

“Harry,” she welcomes with only partially forced warmth, hugging him with faux aplomb.

“Hermione,” he greets in turn, wrapping his arms around her waist. “You’re looking gorgeous.”

She’s flustered; she can feel the heat in her cheeks. It’s hardly the first time he’s complimented her, but the circumstances were distinctly different, and both of them – all of them – knew it.

“Mate,” he greets her husband affably, ignoring the lingering awkwardness. “How was work? Sorry I didn’t get a chance to ask before.”

Ron blinked at him, seemingly dumbfounded. “Uh… yeah, it was fine. Just… mind was in a different place, y’know?”

Harry looked at him with sympathy. “Yeah,” he acknowledged. “Well, at least the day’s over. Can put your feet up and relax.”

The redhead smiled awkwardly. “I think I’m a little too excited for that,” he noted self-deprecatingly, the hint of amusement offsetting the condemnation.

Hermione looked on at the both of them strangely, perplexed at their nonchalance. She had expected… well, she wasn’t sure, if she were honest. But a normal conversation, without the clumsy fumbling around the point? Where was the jealousy? The indignation?

“Do you know where you want to go, ‘mione?” Harry asked her, breaking her from her observation.

It was really happening. She was going on a date with her best friend. With _Harry_. With her _husband’s permission_. “No,” she said faintly, “I’m… anywhere is good.”

He gifts her with that same consoling glance he gave Ron. “Well,” he opens, “how about we head to the Leaky Cauldron, and see where we end up from there?”

“That sounds good,” she agrees, hiding the twinge of disappointment. She’s not disappointed, she tells herself. A neutral, comfortable location; what more could she ask for?

Harry looks to her husband again. “Just… I need to ask you again: are you sure, mate? Are you sure you want me to take Hermione on a date?”

She can see that same lingering hope in Harry that she had not too long ago; the hope that his best friend would come to his senses. It was hidden, better than her own, but she knew Harry like no one else; he might as well have been shouting at them. In that moment she can’t help the feeling of profound affection she holds for him.

“Yeah,” her husband nonetheless assents for what feels like the tenth time. “I’m sure. More sure than I’ve been about anything in my life.”

Hermione ignores the whip of displeasure at his careless words, knowing he doesn’t mean it like that – like his fetish was more certain, more important, than their marriage and vows. But then, that was the problem. It was exactly like that, wasn’t it?

Harry looks down for a moment, ostensibly in thought, before he looks up with a fatigued smile. “Alright then. I suppose we better get going, then.”

She turns to look at her husband, a last hint of pleading in her gaze. But he just looks back at her, eyes glazed with desire, unable to see her distress – or, a voice whispered cynically in the back of her mind, unable to care.

A brief moment of loss forces her eyes closed. With a muted exhale of preparation, she approaches Ron, leaning over to give him a kiss at the corner of his mouth. “I love you,” she says emphatically, needing to convince him.

“Love you too,” he mumbles vacantly, still staring at her with that same expression upon his visage. “Take… as long as you want.”

The sting of anger seeps in, insidious. She wants to yell at him; to demand he take her back from Harry; for him to chastise her for even thinking of agreeing. She _wants_ him to _stop_ her.

But he remains silent except for his heavy breathing and a thousand-yard stare saying more than his words ever could. So, instead, she turns to Harry, and with a smile of regret she stands by his side. She doesn’t comment when his arm gently encircles her waist; doesn’t comment on her husband’s quiet rasp of euphoria as Harry leads her to the fireplace.

In fact, she says nothing until she steps in the fire, and the only words that escape are their destination. “The Leaky Cauldron,” she intones with one last look of regret, staring into her husband’s eyes.


	8. Zeus' Opening

Harry arrives momentarily after her, brushing off invisible flecks of dust. He doesn’t take her waist, and for some reason she feels the loss of it more acutely than she would have ever thought. Nonetheless, he stands slightly in front of her, near side-by-side, and leads her to a table.

They’re accosted by some patrons of the pub, but the moment passes quickly, each placated with a brief moment of attention before they can escape to their table. She can see their roaming eyes – both on her and on _them_ – and she can’t help but wonder what rumours would result from this one night. She could nearly guarantee that for once truth would indeed be stranger than fiction.

They sit on opposite sides, a candle burning brightly between them, wards enacted almost without conscious thought. She takes the time to observe him, the stimuli at home too much to take anything else in. His quasi-suit fits him well, lingering somewhere between smart casual and professional. The light from the flame makes the view more enticing, sharpening his features as the shadows blend around him. He’s… handsome, she can admit freely, certainly now with her husband’s implicit consent.

“I’ll admit, I was surprised, ‘mione,” Harry, her _date_ , announces. “I expected the discussion to take days, if not weeks. Not to mention the research I’m sure you wanted to do before any of this happened. If it happened at all.”

She feels a stab of guilt. It was true; normally she’d spend countless hours exploring options and solutions. “I was… hasty. And angry,” she admitted contritely. “Why didn’t you tell me he sent you to talk to me?”

Harry winced, grimacing. “He told you.”

“Not intentionally,” she confessed. “Still, the question stands: why didn’t you?”

He leaned back, crossing his toned arms against his chest as he thought. “I’m sorry for lying. I… I didn’t even know if I’d say anything in the first place. It wasn’t my place, y’know? But when you… well, when you blamed yourself. I couldn’t stop myself from interfering, especially when I knew that Ron wanted me to explain it anyway.”

Her expression softened even further the more he spoke, darkening only momentarily at the mention of her husband’s cowardice. “I don’t blame you, Harry. Not even a bit. He put you into an awful position; I’m sorry you had to deal with it. You deserve better than to be treated like that by your best friend.”

“You do too,” he riposted. “I’m his best friend, yeah. _You’re his wife_. If he came to you earlier, or even at all, I’m certain you could have convinced him that this was a bad idea. But now…”

She looks down, expression pained. “I know,” she confesses. “I didn’t quite believe it when you told me, even with how much I trust you. I just couldn’t fathom what you saw without seeing it myself.”

Hermione retreats into her chair. “I was going to call it off. After I got out of the bath,” she addends, noticing the slight narrowing of his eyes. “The only reason I agreed in the first place was because I was angry. Not the only reason,” she amends apologetically after a moment of thought, “but a large part, and certainly why I agreed so quickly. But just when I was going to, he looked up at me, and Harry… what I saw…”

Her head shakes with a hint of wonder. “In all our years of marriage, I’ve never seen him look like that about anything. I couldn’t… I couldn’t take that away from him.”

Harry’s face creases with compassion. “He was like that in the bathroom the other day. And when he came into my office today. Both times,” he notes understandingly. “I… feel sorry for him, too. He’s been dealing with this longer than either of us. I’m certain he’s felt as horrified, embarrassed, and even a little bit disgusted, as we do now. He’s just had time to come to terms with it.”

She knows he’s right. The relief she feels at knowing Harry felt the same is freeing, knowing that she wasn’t a horrible person for thinking at least a little bit ill of her husband. The burden grows lighter every second she speaks with him – every second he comforts her. But that, too, was an issue; it was _Harry_ she obtained such divine reprieve from, not her husband. Not the man she swore vows to – the man she now resented, if only just a little bit.

The waitress came over, stopping just outside the ward radius, politely affecting disinterest in spite of their status, or perhaps in deference to it. Harry drops the protections a moment later, smiling politely. “Did you want to eat?” he asks his date.

She feels nauseous at the thought. “Lunch was huge,” she says in lieu of an answer, smiling apologetically at the waitress.

Harry smiles at her before turning to the waitress. “A bottle of red with two glasses, please. Anything sufficiently overpriced,” he directs with underlying amusement shared momentarily by the attendant before she disappears to fulfill his request, wards shuttering in place a moment later.

He leaned back, staring at his date’s partially retreated form. “I was surprised you asked for a _date_ , if I’m honest.”

Hermione looked at him, confused. “Why? Isn’t… isn’t this how it goes?” she asked, lost.

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” Harry was quick to reassure her. “It’s just – we don’t _need_ to date to make Ron happy. Though, again, now that the thought is in there I don’t think he’d be satisfied with anything less.”

She froze, realisation coming swiftly. The date was superfluous. They both knew what they were there for; each had consented and obtained _permission_ , for heaven’s sake! They could have just… done it, and got it over with.

Why had she thought of a date? Why did her mind go straight to that avenue, rather than the more obvious solution?

… What did Ron think?

“It makes sense, though,” he rationalised, comforting as much as discerning. “You never do anything by half, and honestly, I can’t imagine you would be comfortable with casual sex, no matter how close we are.”

He was right. She wouldn’t be able to go through with it. But it still didn’t excuse her from not thinking of it herself before she suggested it, regardless of how ‘in-the-moment’ it was.

“We could pretend,” he offered, Hermione raising her head despite the self-flagellation. “We don’t _need_ to do it. We could just say we did.”

Slowly, she shook her head, both to set aside the lingering guilt and in answer to her date’s question. She could freely admit the idea was peripherally tempting, even having thought of it herself. She could fulfill her husband’s fantasy without actually filling it. But the same problems she’d thought of still remained.

“I don’t want to lie. And I don’t want you to have to lie. Ron would know, anyway; he’s generally discerning when it matters to him. No,” she shook her head again, worrying her bottom lip lightly, “it wouldn’t work. But thank you.”

The waitress returned, wards slithering away as Harry’s attention turns to her. “Enjoy. Let me know if there’s anything else I can get you,” she offered, smiling briefly when they shake their heads thankfully.

He pours them both a half-glass each, knowing they’d both need it. Hermione ducks her head shyly, but nevertheless picks up the glass and starts nursing it, Harry doing the same to his own.

“How are you doing now that the kids have flown the nest?” he segued, knowing they needed a new topic.

“… It’s hard. I’m used to the kids making noise all the time. Now that it’s gone, the house feels empty. We were having dinner, and it was… not awkward, but there was something missing,” she tried to explain. “It’ll probably just take time to get accustomed to it – at least until they come back for the holidays.”

“I know the feeling,” he commiserates. “We’re not home often, but without Lily’s energy it feels like the house is dead.”

Hermione felt a sharp pang of shame. “How is Ginny doing? With the kids and… you know…”

Her date frowned absently. “I’m not sure to be honest. I think she’s gradually gotten used to having to see the kids off, one more than you and Ron, so it’s probably not as sharp for me and her as it is for you two. Ron’s confession, though… he hasn’t spoken to her yet; she’s only heard it from me.”

Harry pauses, hesitating. “I’m not sure how she feels about it. She gave her consent, but there’s… I don’t know. Something.”

“‘Something?’” she asked worriedly. “Is it… okay for us to be here then? The last thing I want is to cause problems for you two.”

He shakes his head wryly. “If it truly bothered her… Well, no, if she _really_ had concerns, she would have raised them. No one would accuse my wife of being passive.”

Something feels off. “She didn’t sound… bothered? Was she angry?”

“At the start, yeah. As I said, there was something there. I wouldn’t be here if she didn’t consent though, ‘mione,” he chastised lightly.

“I know,” she’s quick to reassure. “It’s just – it’s strange.”

“It is,” Harry concedes with a sigh.

With a pang of regret at her prodding, she downed the remains of her glass, wincing at the pungent taste. The warmth that washes into her stomach is a welcome reprieve from the icy pit she’d grown accustomed to as of late.

They spend some time speaking about nothing, taking a small measure of comfort in the familiarity, but still weighed down by the expectations heavy on their consciences. Before long, Harry pours them both another half-glass, setting the bottle down with a note of finality. He inhales the smell, gazing at the table absently for a moment before he looks at her. “The guilt doesn’t make sense. If we’re going to do this, we should relax – have fun. There’s no point if we’re going to be miserable, second-guessing ourselves at every step.”

She smiles bemusedly. “You say it like it’s that easy.”

“Oh, nothing’s ever easy,” he ripostes amusedly. “But, every journey starts,” he looks at the table again – no, not the table, Hermione notices, _her hand_ – “with a single step.”

His reaches out slowly, allowing plenty of time for her to notice – to retreat. She watches it, doing nothing to stop it, until—

His hand held hers, comforting and warm, absently rubbing his thumb across the top of her own. She exhales a breath she didn’t know she was holding. It feels nice – better than it should. She could probably attribute it the warmth of his hands, or simple primal instincts preening to a man she knew would always protect her, a man who had already proven himself time and again. And wasn’t this what Ron wanted – what they were here for?

_It feels right._

So she leaves her hand exactly where it is, to be caressed and loved while she watches on with a growing flush under his heavy gaze. He takes a sip with his other hand, eyes still on her as his tongue escapes to dance across his lips, and she can’t help but take a longer sip of her own.

“Nervous?” he asks jestingly, his damnable eyes still staring into her own.

“Mm,” she hums affirmatively, the heat still spreading, nursing the barest hint of wine.

He laughs lightly under his breath. “I had your waist in my hand last, and _this_ is more nerve-wracking?”

“It’s more personal,” she’s quick to defend, smiling despite herself.

He laughs louder this time. “Ahh, I suppose it is,” he agrees mirthfully. “Somehow, _this_ ,” he indicates with his eyes, squeezing his hand lightly around her own, “feels a lot more… _intimate_.”

The word is purred playfully, both of them well aware they were traversing new waters. “It is,” Hermione agrees, swallowing slowly, watching his eyes trail her throat as it passes. She picks up her glass and downs the remainder, heaving a breath after it disappears. Harry’s eyebrow quirks amusedly before he does the same, the ‘clink’ of glass against the table ringing loudly in her ear.

He stared at her, the warmth in his stare bringing a familiar heat. Her clothes, once comfortable, are cloying. She shifts in her chair, the growing discomfort disturbingly decadent. She needs a distraction; needs to regain control—

“Did you mean it when you said you wanted to be here?”

She didn’t mean to ask that. _She didn’t mean to ask that._

“I meant generally, not here specifically! I mean – did you—” Hermione fumbles, flushing.

“Did I mean it when I said I wanted to try _this_ with you?” Harry gently interjects.

She jerks her head yes, blushing horribly. “God, this is embarrassing. I’m sorry, you don’t have to answer that.”

“Hermione,” he says softly, shaking his head in consolation. “You have nothing to be embarrassed about. The fact that you even have to ask…”

Harry exhales, a sigh of sympathy escaping. “You’ve always second-guessed yourself. Even when it came to school, a place you absolutely _dominated_ , you always thought you weren’t good enough. And then when we had that conversation about Ron behaving differently and you showed me how he made you feel less than perfect… Hermione, best mate or not, I wanted to knock his teeth in.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” she said with a half-hearted chuckle, the slightly choked tone enough to give her away if the lightly watery eyes didn’t.

He smiled tenderly. “Do you remember what I said? ‘Beautiful, loving, kind’. Look at me,” he commanded, her eyes rising to meet his from where they had fallen. “I want to be here. With you. Do you understand?”

What else could she do but nod?

Nonetheless, she couldn’t help but look around self-consciously, wondering if anyone had seen her lapse in composure. He squeezed her hand again, a reminder of his support… and she turned her hand around, intertwining her fingers with his.

She knew she shouldn’t compare the two; one was her husband, one was her best friend. But how could comparisons not be made? Her husband had asked her to have sex with their best friend. There was no lingering illusion of what they would become if they went through with it. They’d be _lovers_ , whether it happened once or twice or _indefinitely_. She knew dissociating emotions in that context wasn’t possible for her – for either of them.

He was dangerous. She knew that going in, but she didn’t expect how much. How much he would affect her; how much she wanted to be affected. How much she wanted to _press her lips to his and_ —

“We should leave,” she said suddenly, her date’s eyebrows rising in surprise. “It’s getting late,” she tried to justify, the weakness of the excuse silently acknowledged by both.

Harry’s eyes softened. “It’s okay, ‘mione,” he offered gently. “It’s been a long day. Let’s head back.”

The rush of affection she felt was immense. He knew she wasn’t suggesting they ‘complete’ their date; could tell by the small signs that her discomfort had risen for reasons he couldn’t quite understand, and that he was respecting those boundaries. _Not like her husband._

She shook her head. “You’ve been wonderful. This has been perfect. Thank you,” she repeats. “It’s just been… too much for one day, I think. I need time to process.”

“Of course,” he allowed. “You only learned about it today, after all. And the conversation did get a bit heavy.”

She smiled sadly. “Yes, but I was also the one to suggest the date. I pushed for it.”

“Mm,” he acknowledged, “and I’m glad you did. If nothing else, it was wonderful to spend time with you. It feels like every time we do, we have work hanging over our heads.”

“I feel the same,” she sympathised. “And it was wonderful,” she admitted, pushing down the flush that wanted to break out.

“That’s all I need to know,” he accepted, happiness crinkling his eyes. “And, it was for me too.”

She stared at each other for a moment before Hermione’s head ducked, unable to meet his eyes – or the emotions inside – any longer. “Let’s go,” Harry directed tenderly.

Hannah waved at them as they made their way to the fireplace, and with reluctance, Harry detached their hands to allow Hermione to make her trip. “Weasley Estate,” she intoned, the burst of flames obscuring her date from sight.

The walls pressed into her from all sides, jettisoning her across with nary a care for her comfort. Within seconds, she landed, inhaling the familiar smell surrounding her. _Home_. The floo heated up, and she stepped aside, the brief flash blinding her before Harry came into view, none the worse for wear.

And there, off to the side, stood her husband.

* * *

“Ron,” she greeted with forced warmth, hiding her hesitation as she approached.

“’mione,” he croaked his acknowledgement, staring at her slowly advancing form. Her arms wrapped around him, resting her head on his chest. “How – how was it?”

She pulled back, gazing into his eyes. Slowly, Hermione’s own softened. “It was perfect,” she confessed, love shining through. “Harry was a perfect gentleman.”

Together, they looked at her date for the night, seeing his tender smile as he looked at them. “It was good, Ron. I think she needed that – to get out and relax for a bit. I think we both did.”

Ron jerked his head in a rough equivalent of a nod. “I’m glad,” he choked out, as if pained to acknowledge it. “You – got back early, didn’t you?”

Hermione grimaced at him. “I… We didn’t do anything, Ron. I needed – I need time,” she confesses quietly. “It’s been too sudden. I still don’t know if I can do it.”

Her husband nods, but he can’t quite hide the pang of need lurking behind his eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, I understand.”

There’s a moment of silence that approaches awkward. “I think I should be getting home,” Harry breaks it gently, Hermione’s head swivelling to look at him with a jolt of unexplained panic.

“Thanks, mate,” Ron interrupts whatever she was about to do or say. “For everything. I… just, thank you.”

Harry gives him a smile. “You’re my best friends, Ron,” he affirms, shaking his head. “You know I’d do anything in my power to make sure you’re both happy. No thanks are needed; you’re family.”

Her husband swallows the emotions, but doesn’t thank him again even though she knows he wants to.

“It was amazing, ‘mione,” Harry addresses her with the same warmth. “You were amazing. Thank you for the beautiful night. I’ll leave you two to it. Have a good night.”

He was leaving. He couldn’t leave. Not yet. It wasn’t _right_.

“Harry,” she calls out as he’s about to turn to the floo. “Wait. I just… Let me…”

She’s cognisant of her husband behind her. She is. But she’s more cognisant of the man in front of her, about to leave with something hanging in the air that feels like finality. And it scares her – even more than the man himself.

She approaches carefully, allowing him to pull back if he wanted to. Slowly, her arms – arms which had only moments previous been around her husband – wrapped around Harry’s shoulders. She swallows, hearing the increased breathing from both in front and behind her. Leaning up, ever so slightly, she inches her head towards his, brown eyes locked with green, yet echoing the same emotions.

Ron inhales sharply as their lips touch, tentative at first, feeling rather than tasting. Out of his sight, his wife’s eyes flutter shut, but he can see Harry’s slowly darken with arousal; can see his arms wrap possessively around his wife’s waist; can see how he deepens and _dominates_ the kiss. What was probably intended as a brief moment of exploration turns into a passionate mauling of his wife’s mouth.

He can see the strength in Harry’s grip; the masculine power oozing from his pores. And he knows Hermione can feel it, the red flush creeping at her neck and surely staining her cheeks telling him all he needs to know. The jealousy is drowned by the intense rush of euphoria, lust overpowering his common sense—

—and then he sees it. A brief, heart-stopping moment where Harry’s single visible eye opens, lidded as he bruises Hermione’s mouth with his own; a moment where Ron could swear there was something like _triumph_ blazing within, before it’s covered once more by Hermione’s chocolate curls.

They broke apart several long moments later, long enough for Ron to almost convince himself that what he saw lurking in Harry’s eyes was a figment of his imagination. Long enough to weep from his tip with covetous humiliation burning him from the inside, watching as his wife moaned deep in her throat from the actions of another, her shuddered exhale as their mouths detached speaking to Ron on a level words could never reach.

“Just… perfect,” he heard his wife moan quietly, the knife in his heart a masochist’s dream. As if feeling the effect her words had on him, she turned – with hesitation, Ron noted, however hidden – to look at him with apology. As his heart was crushed and his shaft quivered, he gave a smile of trampled gratitude, hiding the fractures better than she had her hesitation.

She probably would have noticed if she hadn’t seen the staining, the darkened spot where his precum had soaked through. If she hadn’t felt that momentary disgust, reminded that her infidelity was encouraged by her _husband_. If she wasn’t distracted by that same emotion and what it meant for them.

There had still been a hope, however fleeting, that once he saw them, he’d put a stop to it; that he’d finally act as her husband should. But she also knew from experience that second (third, fourth, fifth) chances for Ron Weasley were futile. And, she admitted to herself, she couldn’t pretend she didn’t want to kiss Harry; that she didn’t feel that insatiable _need_ in that moment.

She felt Harry’s hand squeeze her waist comfortingly. She couldn’t help but turn to meet his eyes, surprised that the tenderness of their date had remained even after their hungry embrace. “Thank you,” he said, genuinely grateful. “That was… _perfect_ ,” Harry echoed, the hint of admiration clear.

She shook her head. “No, thank you. You were… everything was fantastic. Thank you,” she repeated, and unable to stop herself, she kissed his cheek chastely in gratitude.

He smiled affectionately, hiding the darkening of his eyes. “I’ll see you both later,” he whispered in her ear, Hermione ignoring the light fluttering it brought as she nodded haltingly.

With a final nod at Ron, intentionally as friendly and non-threatening as he could make it, he stepped back into the fireplace, disappearing a moment later in a fiery storm of providence.

And she stared at the fireplace for a moment longer, hating herself for wishing he had never left.


	9. Leda's Admission

There was a stilted awkwardness in the air.

She had _kissed_ another man – a man not her husband. At his request and with his encouragement, true, but still!

Worse, he seemed even more excited than she was. And she was honest enough to admit she was _excited._

“That was…” Ron started, trailing off with an audible swallow.

“Yeah.”

They both stared at each other, not sure what else to say. “Was that… okay?” Hermione asked, adrenaline wearing off and anxiety taking its place.

Ron hesitated. “Yeah.”

“I… did you want to do that again?” Hermione asked falteringly.

“… Do you?”

She gazed at him, lost. What could she say? Did he want her to say yes? Had he changed his mind, in spite of the evidence pressing offensively against his pants? Or was it some sort of sick trap to try and get her to admit her adulterous desires?

“… it was nice,” she deferred, letting the fear guide her answer.

He smirked, a hint of her husband shining through the cracks in the deviant he had become. “‘Nice’,” he repeated amusedly. “I’m pretty sure you said something far more than ‘nice’ just a few minutes ago.”

Hermione flushed at the reminder. “It was though,” she justified, huffing almost playfully. “He was… He was so attentive. Caring. I mean it’s Harry, of course he was, but…”

She paused, trying to articulate so much in so little.

“It was nice,” she repeated with more surety. “I… wouldn’t mind doing it again, maybe. But I need to take some time to process it all,” she was quick to intercede, noticing his brightening expression.

“Sure,” he was quick to reassure, a now recurring theme she noticed when it came to satisfying his most perverse desires. “I’m… I’m really glad you’re giving this a shot, ‘mione.”

Hermione smiled ruefully. “You are my husband,” she explained in lieu of an actual answer.

“Yeah, but I know it’s hard. And I know you don’t really understand it. It means a lot that you’re still willing to try, both to understand and to actually… well, yeah.”

Her smile grew a little more genuine. “It’s who you are, Ron. I’m not going to deny that it’s been difficult, but I’m definitely not going to ask you to deny who you are. Whether I can go any further or not, I don’t want you to feel like you have to hide a part of yourself away.”

He exhaled deeply through his nose. “I know, ‘mione. I just didn’t want to put this on you. I spent so long trying to figure all this out, and now that you know, I’m just… I don’t know. Feeling guilty, I s’pose.”

She shook her head, guilt of her own gnawing at her. “Yes, but you shouldn’t have ever felt like you needed to hide it from me. It’s shocking, yes, and more than a little confronting, but this is part of what marriage is about.”

Ron gave a shy smile, head ducked self-consciously, and for the first time since his secret had been revealed to her, Hermione felt like things would be okay.

And why wouldn’t she? After all, her husband, fetish aside, clearly still loved her; and more, still cared about her feelings, regardless of how it sometimes appeared. She had a wonderful best friend who had once again proven himself a kind and honourable man, helping both of them come to terms with the changes in their relationship.

Her ‘date’ was really just a get-together between two old friends, catching up without work hanging over their heads. The touching was… nice, but it wasn’t _really_ inappropriate. And the kiss, well… Ron had expressed his desire, and her filling a part of it was hardly a betrayal.

 _Her_ desire, however, was far more problematic.

What would Ron think? She couldn’t hide it, _certainly_ now after what she had said about honesty. Hermione tried to bury the voice of anxiety whispering excuses in her ear, but they slithered in regardless: that she didn’t _need_ to talk about it because he already knew; that her reactions were more than sufficient to tell him; that it would just make things more awkward.

She would have listened to them not a day previous. Now, knowing how much it hurt her when Ron couldn’t tell her something similarly important, she couldn’t do the same to him in return. Regardless of how justified she’d be. Regardless of how much her mounting trepidation wanted her to ignore it. Regardless of how much another part of her would prefer to share the knowledge with someone else.

“You’re right, though,” she confessed instead, seemingly a non sequitur. “‘Nice’ wasn’t… entirely accurate. It was really… quite thrilling, if I’m honest. I didn’t expect… well, anything like that, really.”

Her husband stared at her, the strangest flecks of emotions in his eyes. “Really? It was… good? For you too?”

‘Too,’ Hermione repeated to herself with a tinge of relief. “It was. I didn’t think it would be that – intense. And… easy at the same time. We’ve been friends for so long, I was expecting us to be paralysed with fear that we’d damage our relationship, or at least for everything to be horribly awkward. But it kind of just _worked_.”

The obvious fascination Ron wore was more than enough to give her the courage to ask. “Did you maybe want to hear specifics, or would that be too—”

“—no! I mean yes! I mean, I’d like to know what happened, but only if you want to tell me.”

Hermione felt the rising heat in her cheeks. “Okay. Um, what did you want to hear about first?”

“How – did you – no,” Ron shook his head absently, neither question seeming right. “Where did you go?”

“It was just the Leaky Cauldron. It was… comfortable. Warm. I don’t think either of us wanted to go anywhere else.”

“That’s – that’s good. I’m glad you were comfortable.”

There was a lull before Ron fired off another. “Did you eat anything?”

“No,” she shook her head. “We were full from the spaghetti. It was delicious, by the way.”

“I’m glad you two enjoyed it,” he confessed, more genuine than she expected. “So if you didn’t eat, what did you do?”

“We – we talked. That’s… kind of all, really. Though we had a bit of wine,” Hermione amended, embarrassed.

“No, that’s good. You rarely let yourself enjoy stuff like that. I’m glad you did.”

Flustered, she hummed a muted agreement. “It was nice,” she repeated again.

“The drink?”

“Well, yes. But generally it was just nice. Harry and I haven’t really spent much time together without it being about work; it was good to catch up and actually have a conversation outside of which member is going to stonewall us at the next meeting,” she half-jested.

Ron felt a pang of insidious agony beating against the need to know. “What did you talk about?”

“Well,” Hermione started with carefully hidden caution, hearing something in his voice. “It was about you, and me, and him, and everything really. We made small talk, then we talked about how we felt now that the kids had left; and, later, how we felt when we found out about your… your fantasy. How we felt about the ‘arrangement’.”

Her husband cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Is Harry… still okay with it?”

“Surprisingly, yes. He’s… actually rather… understanding. We talked a little about Ginny too; he assured me that he wouldn’t be there without her permission. It was… very reassuring, though neither of us understand why she said yes. He said she was a bit ‘off’, though,” she pondered now that she had the opportunity. “Have you had the chance to talk with her?”

“Not… yet,” Ron grimaced.

She frowned in return, nonplussed. “You really need to speak with her soon. If we’re being honest about being responsible, we really should have had that conversation before today.”

“I know,” he agreed grudgingly, not at all looking forward to the conversation even if she had given permission. “It’s just, what do I say to her? ‘Sorry Ginny, I get off on your husband sleeping with my wife, please don’t be mad’?”

Hermione looked down, flushed at the crude admission – the first time it had been said so clearly. “Well, you probably don’t want to phrase it quite like that,” she said, trying to sound unaffected.

“Yeah, I know,” he admitted sullenly. “It’s just not something I ever expected to have to discuss with my _sister._ ”

His wife hummed sympathetically. After all, what else could she do? Somehow she didn’t think it would sound better coming from the woman her husband might sleep with in the future, even if they hadn’t done anything yet.

Ron straightened, looking her in the eye once more. “Did you… discuss anything else? Did anything else happen, apart from…”

She knew what he was hinting at. “I mean, we were out for a little while; there were other topics, of course, but nothing too… scandalous. We just kind of… held hands,” she admitted, feeling silly now that she had said it. “Nothing happened until we got home, and, well…”

They stared at each other, their memories of that kiss igniting embers once more. “The kiss,” Ron reminded her needlessly, almost rasping the word.

“The kiss,” she acknowledged solemnly as the guilt circled her, irrationally waiting for her husband’s signal to feast.

“I’ve never… never wanted you so much in my life,” he confessed, the subtle shifting of his hips enough to tell her he was telling the truth – enough to wash away that lingering doubt and scandalous remorse.

“Do you really? Was it – was it okay?” she asked hesitantly, the weight slipping from her shoulders.

“It was _hot_ and _sexy_ and I bloody loved it,” Ron admitted in turn, though still with a note of nervousness. “You just… you just kissed him, and it was so—”

“—passionate? I don’t know, I was just… I felt like I had to, after everything. But I – I wanted to as well. Is that… is that okay?”

Her husband paused. “It’s… it’s okay. Better than okay. I – I’d hoped that you… I mean, it’s… I’m jealous, yeah, but that kind of… makes it even better, y’know?”

She didn’t.

“Okay,” she breathed out instead, rolling his position in her mind. “That’s… good to know. But I always thought… you seemed so angry when you were jealous of Harry when we were at school. I don’t… is this… did you feel that way at school, too?”

Ron pondered the question quietly. “I’m not sure,” he admitted, both to her and himself. “I only really knew it since… maybe the battle?”

“That long,” she murmured, surprised, not needing any clarification as to which battle, even so many years later.

He looked away uncomfortably. “Near abouts, yeah.”

“That’s – thank you for telling me. I still don’t… really understand why you ‘like’ this, but at least I know _what_ you like. Just… please tell me if it gets to be too much. Not that I expect more or anything, but even if it’s just more of the same and it gets too much – the… the kissing, or the hand-holding, just let me know if it’s not okay and we’ll stop straight away.”

His gaze, which had strayed to her as she tried to make sense of everything, drifted away once more. “I… don’t think that’s going to happen, Hermione.”

She was starting to feel the same.

“Still,” she implored weakly, “For my sake, if nothing else, I just need you to know that you can always call it off. Even though you want this, it’s still – it’s still adultery. I need you to know you can always put a stop to it.”

“I… understand. But… we’ve been honest with each other, and I – I want to keep being honest with you. You need to know that I… I don’t _want_ to be able to stop it,” Ron confesses, looking into her eyes imploringly.

Hermione blinked, befuddled. “I… don’t understand,” his wife says, lost.

“I don’t either,” he comments self-deprecatingly, the tinge of humour masking the insanity of his admission. “I just… I would prefer – _strongly_ – to… to not be allowed to choose. To back out. To change my mind.”

Hermione stared at him, eyes wide. “You don’t want… I don’t… Why? What if you don’t want to do this in the future? What if you start getting ‘jealous’? Why – what if – I don’t—”

“—If you need me to to have an out, I understand, of course,” he interrupted, hurrying to reassure her, knowing how precarious his position was. “I just… I’ve seen how much honesty means, not only for you but for us, and I’ve never loved you so much since I started being honest with myself and with you, because now I can _be myself_. So I just… need you to know.”

“But I – I don’t _understand_ ,” she blurted out frustratedly. “I… I kind of understand your fascination with cuckoldry, at least from what I’ve been told so far, but nothing I’ve read or heard says anything about this! They’re always talking about consent, and about it being mutually beneficial with rules and agreements! If – if you don’t have the ability to say no – if you _give it up_ – how can it be consensual?”

“It’s – I suppose I’m consenting to giving up my consent. It’s like the elves; they give up their independence not only because they need to, but because they want to, right?”

Hermione hesitated. “Okay,” she acceded the point reluctantly, “but I’m still not… comfortable with it. Is it okay if we… leave it open? At least for now, until I have more time to read and think about it? I’m… really not… comfortable with it, but maybe after I take some time?”

Ron smiled softly. “That’s all I ask, ‘mione. You’ve done so much for me already over the last few days; whether you’re willing to take another step with me or not, thank you. You have… you have no idea how much it means to—”

Swirling green flames licked at her heels as she stepped out of the fireplace and into the foyer. “Ron,” his sister greeted him with forced decorum, “we need to talk.”

 


	10. Hera's Wrath; Tyndareus' Path

_“_ Ginny,” Hermione exclaimed, rising with surprise.

Ron could see his sister’s jaw clench for the briefest of moments before she relaxed.

 _“_ Hermione,” she responded in turn, that same faux politeness he had grown up with, once barely restrained under the watchful eye of their mother yet now perfected through years of practice. “So sorry to drop by unannounced. I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”

 _“_ No, no,” his wife offered in turn, infinitely more genuine, “we were just – talking. Nothing important.” The brief reminder of their conversation – and its topic – was enough to bring long forgotten instincts back to the fore. “How was your day? Is there anything I can get you? Tea? Water? Oh, have you eaten? We have leftovers if you’re staying for dinner. It was quite good, I must say, and the sauce only gets better with time; Ron made more than—”

 _“_ I won’t be here long,” Ginny cut in with a brief, curt smile, enough to suspend further panicked pleasantries. Her stare returned to Ron, silence rapidly approaching the point of oppression.

 _“_ Oh. Well, I’ll… be up in the bedroom if you need me?” Hermione half-questioned, more to Ginny than to her husband, nerves leaving her jittery. Ron gave a brief, pained smile of thanks, though he noted his sister didn’t even glance her way.

Slowly, his wife walked away, looking back worriedly as if questioning whether she should leave them alone. Nonetheless, her footsteps echoed softer and softer as she went, climbing the stairs out of sight until the creek of the door resounded, the soft shut of the door following a moment later.

Ginny’s eyes briefly flickered at the noise, but otherwise didn’t show any recognition that they were alone except to take a seat. No sudden attacks, no accusations, no yelling; only the cold contemptuous quiet of a sister betrayed by her brother.

He’d never seen her like this. Her temper was legendary, but never was it cool.

 _“_ Uhh,” Ron began eloquently, “what’s up, Gin’?”

He winced internally, helped along when her eyes narrowed to a withering glare.

 _“_ Explain,” Ginny demanded tersely, cutting through the poor attempt at levity.

Visibly grimacing, Ron proceeded cautiously. “How much do you know?”

Her eyes narrowed further. “Not enough,” she riposted acerbically, the bitter undertone clear.

Closing his eyes, his mind raced. “Okay. Well, uh… if you… want me to explain everything, this might be a little longer than—”

 _“—_ Tell me what’s going on,” she bit out impatiently. “Why, suddenly, _my husband_ has started dating my _brother’s wife_ , and why, _apparently_ , it’s at the behest of that _same_ _brother_.”

What could he say?

 _“_ I thought you were okay with it.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew he shouldn’t have let them. This wasn’t Harry, his best mate, the stalwart support; nor was it Hermione, the wife he didn’t deserve, forever understanding and considerate. This was Ginny, his tempestuous sister, and most importantly, _not the swallower of his bullshite_.

 _“_ Okay?” Ginny echoed mockingly. “Okay with what, Ron? Hm? How you _manipulated_ Harry into helping you fulfil some sick fantasy, using his good nature against him, _taunting_ him with the possibility of something terrible happening to you? I don’t even want to consider the kind of shite I’m sure you put Hermione through to get _her_ to agree, but I’m sure it was just as disgusting as what you did to _my husband_.”

 _“_ That’s not fair,” he cut in weakly. “I didn’t – I was just – I only told the truth, Gin’. It wasn’t—”

 _“—_ No, you know _exactly_ what you did, and you _know_ it was fucked up. Not something a friend would do. Not something a brother would do. Not something a _husband_ would do,” she declared spitefully.

Ron breathed out quietly. “I know, Gin’,” Ron accepted after a moment, head bowed in apology. “But I need you to know… well, I suppose you know it was all my fault. But Ginny, if it wasn’t important to me, I never would have done any of it.”

 _“_ It’s important that Harry, _my husband_ , has sex with Hermione _, your wife_ ,” she summarises in disbelief.

 _“_ I know how it sounds,” her brother responded quickly. “It sounds – it _is –_ insane. I know. But Ginny, I’m – I’m happier than I’ve been in years. I can concentrate at work; I’m attentive at home; I’m feeling like myself for the first time in what feels like forever.”

Ginny laughed incredulously. “You’re not actually trying to tell me my husband sleeping with your wife is making you happier. Not even that, because I _know_ they haven’t done anything.”

 _“_ It sounds strange to me too,” Ron agreed diplomatically. “I can only tell you what’s happened and how I feel – and… to try and explain why it’s so important to me.”

 _“_ What you – explain—” she sputtered in disbelief. “You’re… actually… trying to convince me to let this happen. With – _with my husband_ ," she said, rising from her chair with fury.

 _“_ I just want you think about it,” he countered hastily with hands clasped in front of him, hearing how thinly he was treading. “Even not considering me – I’m sure I’m not high up on your list of people to please right now – the benefits this has had already on my relationship with Hermione has been huge; who’s to say that it won’t work with you and Harry? We’re more open, we’re talking so much m—”

 _“—_ You’re going to stop speaking. _Right now_ ,” his sister demanded menacingly, standing deathly still.

He wants to. Every instinct screams at him, demanding he retreat. But he knows if he does, the one opportunity to make his sister understand – if the chance ever existed – would disappear.

Maybe that’s why his next question sounded so urgent. Maybe that’s why he chose the worst possible way to ask.

 _“_ If you were so against it, why didn’t you say anything earlier?”

And maybe, just maybe, this was the true beginning of his descent into Hell.

 _“_ Are you… you’re suggesting this is _my fault_?” she exclaimed with incredulity, the familiar fiery anger quickly mounting as her expression twisted. “ _You presumptuous arsehole!_ Even forgetting your seventh year, I was there when you turned your back on Harry in fourth. Over a stupid cup you _knew_ he never wanted to win in the first place! You betrayed him, left him all alone to weather the stupidity of everyone, over _jealousy._ And you’re now saying you want him to _fuck your wife_? Forgive me if when Harry told me I thought the idea was more than slightly _barmy_ ; forgive me if I thought you would _never, ever_ go through with it!”

 _“_ Okay,” he pleaded with immediate desperation, wondering where the conversation had gone so wrong. “Alright. But you coulda – you coulda said no! No one was forcing you; no one would – or could! – ever force you to do anything, Ginny! Why’d you say yes if you thought it’d never happen?”

 _“_ Because I _thought_ if you were confronted with just a taste, just the _thought_ of it happening for _real_ , you’d finally get some Merlin-damned _sense_ knocked back into your empty head! Because I _thought_ that this was more likely a stupid prank than you _losing your mind_! Because every _shred_ of evidence said you would _never_ , not in a thousand years, allow this to happen! When Harry got that promotion over you and you didn’t complain for a second, I thought you’d finally grown up, but it turns out that, _actually_ , you just happen to get turned on from him _fucking you over_!”

 _“_ It’s – that’s not – that’s not fair, Gin. I – I don’t – Hermione has done research on it. It’s – there’s an explanation for it—”

 _“—_ I don’t care about your ‘ _explanation’_ ,” she spat the word venomously, “ _it stops now_! If you want to share your depravities with your wife, fine, but _don’t use my husband to do it_! The fact that I even need to tell you this is beyond—”

She stopped, closing her eyes and breathing in deeply. “It stops. No more. Find someone else to fulfill your sick fantasies, because Harry isn’t doing it anymore. What in the name of Merlin were you thinking, bringing him into your games, knowing he’s married – to your _sister_ , at that? Why would you think that’s even remotely okay?”

 _“_ I – I thought you were okay with it,” Ron justified desperately, a poor echo of a poorer explanation.

 _“_ Yes, and as I’ve just clarified, I’m _not_! But that’s not the question: why would _you_ think it’s okay? What caused you to pick _him_ , of all people?”

Ron looked down, humiliation warring with his sister’s evident ire. “… I don’t – it… I don’t… there’s no… desire when it’s someone else,” he mumbled, fumbling uncomfortably.

 _“_ You’ve tried _this_ with other people?”

 _“_ No!” Ron was quick to refute. “No. I… just the thought… it sickens me if it’s – someone else.”

Ginny reeled back. “What… what the fuck is wrong with you, Ron?”

He flinched, her spite hurting for the first time since that whirl of green—

— _but he had to try._

“Please Ginny,” he begged piteously, “just think about it—”

“Think about what, Ron? Your disgusting fantasies? Or maybe how _my brother_ is trying to convince me to let _my husband_ fuck _his wife_?”

He rose swiftly, desperately. “Just let me—”

“I said it stops, Ron,” she cut in, disgusted. “It’s over! Get some help – or don’t. Either way, it's not my problem, and it’s not happening. Never again.”

She turned to the fireplace in absolute antipathy. In that single moment he could see it: his fantasy, his desire, his _need_ , walking away in a spectre of black and orange. An unfulfilled life of bleak hopelessness, knowing what he’d lost now that he’d had that _taste_. Years and decades of nights more, wondering and yearning for what could have been.

That expression. She didn’t understand. She was stubborn. She wouldn’t change her mind. If she just listened to him, she’d understand. She’d agree if she listened. Everything would make sense.

“Im—”

She was ruining everything. Why wouldn’t she let him explain? She didn’t care. If she cared, she would listen - she'd give him a chance to explain. Why didn’t she care? Didn’t she want him to be happy? Didn’t she see he _needed_ this? He was her _brother_ ; why wouldn’t she _listen_?!

“—per—”

She’s in denial. Everyone could see how Harry and Hermione were. Everyone knew what would happen – what _should_ happen. This is the only way for their families to be – to _remain_ – together. In time, she’d agree. His sister just needed time to accept it. Once she saw things clearly, she’d understand. Everything would be fine. He’d be whole. They’d be whole. In time, she’d understand.

“—i—”

But what if she never did? What if she couldn’t ever see it? If she didn’t listen now, how would she ever under—

“—o.”

… No. She’d understand. She would.

He’d make sure of it.


End file.
